This book was given to JOANNA Rączkowska on Instafreebie. www.instafreebie.com
BREAKING GROUND A Tale of Supernatural Suspense A Darkeningstone Story
Mikey Campling Somewhere, Sometime, The Stone is Watching
This book is for Becky and Jake. May you keep looking for treasure, no matter how hard it seems. You never know what you might dig up next. It is part of the human condition that we feel the need to visualise a past. –Sir Barry Cunliffe, Britain Begins
Table of Contents Title Page Dedication Get Your Free Starter Library Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Epilogue Thank you for Reading Breaking Ground Afterword TRESPASS sample pages Trespass Chapter 1 Trespass Chapter 2 Trespass Chapter 3 Trespass Chapter 4 Connect with the Author Also by Mikey Campling Coming Soon About the Author Copyright Notice
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PROLOGUE 3540 BC CLEOFAN CLOSED HIS EYES and walked across the ledge until the edge was only a heartbeat away. Still, he did not hesitate. He stepped forward, feeling the change in the air, sensing the void beyond the brink. There. He stood still, his toes curling to grip the edge. The soft, weatherworn stone crumbled beneath his feet, sending a shower of grit and gravel rattling and bouncing down the rock face. He tilted his head, listening until the last echoes faded away. The silence was almost perfect. Cleofan opened his eyes and turned his head, scanning the pit below. His gaze flitted from shadow to shadow, lingering on the twisted trunk of a fallen tree, the cool darkness behind a boulder. Hiding places. He waited. The breeze caught his long, straggly hair, whipping it in front of his face. He took a deep breath, and sighed. “I’m alone,” he whispered. “Alone.” For a moment, he remembered his first time in the pit, ten long years ago. He hadn’t wanted to come. “Go and help the men fetch stone,” his wife had said, “you must be good for something.” He’d trailed along behind the other men, trying to ignore their backward glances, their smirks. But he’d noticed how the men had changed as they’d neared the pit. Their jokes and jibes had faded away to low muttering, and they’d stopped gawping at Cleofan. Instead, they’d glanced nervously from side to
side, watching the shadows. They’d trudged across the pit in silence, their heads twitching at every sound. Everyone in the village knew the pit belonged to the Shades. In the daylight, they dared to take the Shades’ stone to build their homes. But they always worked as quickly as they could, loading up their wooden litters and dragging their heavy harvest away before the sun dipped too low. Only a fool would stay in the pit as darkness fell. Cleofan shuddered at the memory of that day. In grim silence the men had ripped chunks of stone from the rock face with their clumsy tools of wood and sharpened horn, glaring at Cleofan’s ham-fisted efforts to help. At least they hadn’t noticed when he’d slipped away. And when he’d re-joined them later, no one had bothered to ask Cleofan where he’d been. Now he smiled, remembering the impulse to explore, the thrill of climbing the rock face, his astonishment at finding the ledge—his ledge. The Shades had brought him here. They had shown him so much. And in return, he’d kept their secret. He’d never told anyone about the ledge, never hinted at what it held. No one, not even his wife, knew where he went when he walked out alone. Cleofan frowned and set his jaw. She complained each time he came home empty handed, but he knew the truth. He did not bring home dead meat, but something more valuable than she could ever understand. You foolish woman, he thought. You’re just like the others. The whole village was no better than a bunch of infants: frightened of the dark, afraid of the unknown, the unseen. They built their little huts with stone plundered from this sacred place and dreamed of nothing more than a full belly and a warm fire. They could never see the pit as he saw it. To Cleofan it was a place of peace and strength, a place of power.
There was nothing to fear here for those who would listen to the Shades—for those who understood. He had treated the Shades with respect, and they had shown him their greatest secret. Cleofan turned away from the pit and looked toward the Darkeningstone. It called to him, whispered in his thoughts. And suddenly he knew: the time was coming. The time for change.
CHAPTER 1 2007 THE CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS IN THE SHOP WINDOW seemed all wrong. I pushed my hands deeper into the pockets of my parka and gazed at the coloured lights, the plastic snowmen. Above the illuminated Santa Claus, the rifles hung like a whispered threat. Among the tinsel, telescopic sights gleamed darkly. A brightly lit glass case turned slowly, presenting its array of glittering knives in turn. A small plastic reindeer stood among the vicious serrated blades of hunting knives. Someone’s idea of a joke. I looked away. This wasn’t what I’d come to see. The metal detectors stood in a neat row. I smiled. All five were still there—sleek, black and as tempting as always. I craned my neck to read the display cards alongside each model, although I already knew what they said. I always started with the basic machine on the left —the cheapest. As I worked my way along the row, I chewed my lip, weighing up the extra features, balancing them against the cost. A hand dropped onto my shoulder. “What are you looking at, Jakey?” “Dad,” I moaned. “You shouldn’t creep up on people.” He took his hand away. “Oh sorry, I’m sure,” he said. “Just came to tell you, we’re going to find somewhere for lunch.” He half turned, looking over his shoulder. Mum
was standing a little way off, surrounded by carrier bags. She smiled and gave us a little wave, then made a point of hugging herself, rubbing her arms to keep out the cold. “Oh,” I said. “I was just…” “What? Did you want to go in—have a look?” I looked up at Dad. “Really? I thought…what about Mum?” He smiled, gave me a wink and turned back to Mum. He pointed to the shop then held out his gloved hands, extending his fingers. “Ten minutes,” he called. “All right?” Mum opened her mouth in disbelief and shook her head. She shrugged her shoulders and raised her arms, her palms outwards, exaggerating the gesture. A couple of old ladies skirted around her, giving her a funny look. Dad chuckled and gave her a friendly wave. He turned back to me with a wicked grin. “Come on,” he said, “before she gets really cross.” He patted me on the arm then marched toward the shop door. It was too late to stop him now, and I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to. “Are you coming then?” Dad stood in the shop doorway, holding the door open for me. If we were quick, Mum wouldn’t mind, would she? “Yeah,” I said, “but we’d better not be too long.” “Sure,” Dad said. “No problem.” He smiled and went inside. I risked a quick glance back at Mum, but she was already bending down, gathering up her bags of shopping. I turned away and followed Dad as quickly as I could. *** “But what would you do with it?” Mum said. I sipped my hot chocolate and moved a menu card to
make room for the mug on the cluttered table. “Detect metal,” I said. Mum rolled her eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but Dad cut in: “I hope they bring the food soon,” he said. “I’m starving.” “Yes, well they’re busy, aren’t they?” she said. “Perhaps if we’d come in when I said, we’d have beaten the rush.” Dad scowled. Not now, I thought. Please. Not in front of everyone. “Gold coins,” I said. They both looked at me. I hurried on. “There was this man, right? First time he used his metal detector, he found Roman coins. Forty of them— all solid gold. Worth a hundred thousand pounds.” I looked from Mum’s blank expression to Dad’s puzzled frown. “It’s true,” I said, “it was on the news—BBC.” Dad smiled, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Must be true then,” he said. He looked at Mum. “We’ll have to see, won’t we, love?” Mum watched him, her head tilted to one side. “I suppose so,” she said. “We’ll just have to wait and see.” *** On Christmas Day, Mum and Dad sat on the sofa together and watched me rip the wrapping paper from a promisingly large box. “Wow,” I breathed. “It’s the C250. Thank you.” I slipped the polystyrene packaging from the cardboard sleeve. The metal detector was in several parts, each nestling in its own snug compartment. I ran my hands over the smooth components, smiling. The C250 was the mid-range model, and I was very happy. I’d have settled for the basic machine. “I’ve put the batteries in,” Dad said. “You’ve just got to assemble it, and it’s ready to go.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I said. “It’s great.” I took out the instruction leaflet. “You don’t need that,” Dad said, “I’ll help you if you like.” “Er—I think you’d better let Jake do it himself,” Mum said. Dad gave her a look of mock indignation. “You’ve never forgiven me for that Ikea TV stand, have you?” “TV stand?” Mum said. “It was meant to be a wardrobe.” We all laughed. Later, I’d remember that moment. I’d remember how good life used to be. And while it would hurt to remind myself of all that I was missing, it would give me hope that, maybe one day, I wouldn’t be alone anymore.
CHAPTER 2 3,500 BC SLOWLY, BURLIC CREPT FORWARD. He lifted his foot to take another careful step, glancing at the ground for anything that might make a sound beneath his feet. But he raised his eyes and looked from side to side as he placed his foot silently onto the soft forest soil. You didn’t hunt by staring at the ground. And you didn’t stay alive unless you stayed alert. He turned his head and looked deep into the early morning shadows among the trees. And froze. What was that? He’d seen something. A movement, a shape. Something…something that could be a man, a threat. He gripped his spear tightly. His other hand went to the knife at his belt. A sudden breeze whispered through the forest. Ferns stirred and shushed. Branches swayed and shook their leaves. Burlic felt the breeze on his face and narrowed his eyes. He watched as shadows shifted and dissolved. And then, all was still. Burlic waited. Was that all it was? Just a gust of wind stirring the shadows? Burlic moved his hand away from his knife and took a deep breath. He savoured the forest’s heady scent of fresh green growth and damp decay; the smell of new life and of deaths long past. All was well. He looked ahead. Through the trees, he spotted a grassy clearing. A perfect place for deer to feed, he thought, and the perfect place to lie in wait. It was almost too good to be true. He
stepped forward to the edge of the clearing and leaned against the peeling trunk of a silver birch. He cocked his head to one side, listening, listening. There. The tell-tale rustle in the undergrowth. Prey. Just beyond the clearing, a tall fern swayed, then shook. And there it was again—the faint whisper of dry leaves, too insistent to be the wind. A glimpse of grey fur, and the rabbit loped onto the grass and bent its head to feed. Burlic smiled. The rabbit was a good size and plump. His wife, Scymrian, would be pleased. I was right, he thought. Right to try a new hunting ground, right to venture out by myself. He’d show them. He’d prove he was as stealthy as the best of them. Keeping his eyes on his target, he raised his slender spear to shoulder height. He squared his shoulders, narrowed his eyes and drew back his spear. He took a breath and held it. Ready. The arrow missed his face by a hair’s breadth. The sharp flint smacked into the silver birch’s trunk and shattered with a sharp crack, the point embedded in the tree. Burlic whirled around, his knees bent, his spear at the ready. A second arrow sliced through the air. The fierce heat of a body blow seared through his right thigh, biting deep into his flesh like a savage kick. He looked down, stunned to see the arrow sticking out from his thigh. He dropped his spear and grabbed the arrow’s shaft, roaring as he ripped it from his leg. Hot blood coursed across his skin. For a heartbeat, he stared at the arrow head, watching in disbelief as his blood dripped from the jagged flint. A rush of sound, of men running through the undergrowth. Burlic looked up, trying to ready himself, but it was too late. Too late even to draw his knife. The men were on him. Two men. One man readied another
arrow as he ran toward the clearing. The other man hurtled forward, crashing through the undergrowth, snarling, swinging his axe as he charged at Burlic. In the blink of an eye, Burlic took in the axeman’s huge frame, his speed. And at the last possible moment, he sidestepped, twisting his body away. Like a cold breath on his cheek, he felt the axe carve through the air in front of his face. Burlic watched the axeman’s eyes, caught a glimpse of his startled confusion. The man had missed his target but could not stop his headlong charge. And then he was past Burlic, carried forward by his deadly momentum. Burlic turned to face him. But as he shifted his weight, his wounded leg buckled beneath him, and he cried out, dropping to one knee. Burlic hung his head, and as he ground his teeth in pain, a third arrow thudded into the ground beside him. The axeman wheeled around in time to see Burlic collapse, bloodied and beaten. He grunted in satisfaction then paused to take a breath, baring his teeth. He shifted his grip on the axe, holding it with both hands. He smiled and stepped closer to Burlic, raising his axe to shoulder height, making ready to split Burlic’s skull in two. And in that moment, Burlic struck. Powering himself upwards with his good leg, he lashed out, his arm curving up in an arc toward his attacker. And in his hand, gripped tight in his fist, was the arrow he had torn from his leg. The sharp edge sliced across the axeman’s face, tearing open his cheek, slicing through his nose and gouging out his right eye. The man’s screams were barely human. Across the clearing, the bowman faltered, gawping in horror as his companion dropped his axe and held his hands to his face. The stricken man’s body jerked in spasms of pain as blood seeped between his fingers.
Burlic turned to face the bowman, and growled. For a moment, the men looked each other in the eye, then Burlic lowered his head, and he charged, blind rage blanking out the pain in his leg. The bowman looked down, trying to load an arrow to his bow. But his fingers fumbled, and the bowstring slipped from the shaft. And then Burlic collided with him, pushing him off his feet, forcing him backward. A point of pure pain erupted in his gut, searing through his whole body. Burlic drove his fist into the man’s belly, still holding the arrow, twisting its jagged head back and forth, and forcing it relentlessly through skin and flesh. Burlic charged on, not seeing the tree that barred his path until he crashed the bowman’s back against it. The sudden halt drove his hand deeper into the man’s gut, the hot, slippery entrails seething against his fingers. With a shout, Burlic withdrew his hand, leaving the arrow embedded in the bowman’s body. The man gasped for air, his eyes staring into nothingness, and then, as his breath left him in a long, rattling sigh, he slid slowly down the tree trunk to the ground and toppled over onto his side. The bowman’s hands twitched feebly for a moment and then were still. Burlic dropped his hands to his knees, bending to catch his breath, his mind a whirl of blood and rage. A sound behind him. Spinning on his heel, Burlic saw the axe rushing toward him and turned his head just in time. The sharp stone caught him a glancing blow on the side of his skull. Burlic staggered, his ears ringing, his eyes dazzled by a flash of white light. Warm blood trickled through his hair and ran onto his neck, but he didn’t have time to wipe it away. The axe drove toward his head once more, and he stumbled backward as the deadly axehead whirled past his eyes. Burlic shook his head and gasped
as he saw the blood-red demon that faced him. The axeman bellowed, a roar that gurgled from the mass of blood and dangling flesh that had been his face. His right eye hung below its ruined socket, his left cheek was a ragged gash, open to the glistening, white bone. And still, the blood poured from his wounds. He raised the axe once more, gripping it with both bloodslippery hands. Burlic stepped back. He was still dizzy from the blow to his head, his ears still hissing. He needed time to think. Should he run? But his leg was wounded. And as he watched the axeman striding toward him, he knew he could not outrun him and must not turn his back on him. He’d made that mistake once already. He must stand and fight. It was too late for anything else. As the axeman closed in for the kill, Burlic dropped into a half crouch, every muscle tense. He focussed on his enemy, judging his speed, weighing up his weaknesses. The man’s two-handed swing was lethal, but it was slow and clumsy. He’ll have to be close, Burlic thought. Very close. The axeman turned his good eye to Burlic and growled. He held the axe at waist height and drew it to one side, preparing a body blow that would send Burlic sprawling to the ground. Burlic forced himself to wait. The axeman stepped forward. Despite his injuries, he swung his axe with a frenzied speed and strength. From the corner of his eye, Burlic followed the arc of the axe, waiting until it was almost too late. He leapt back, just enough to escape the vicious blade. The axeman followed through, his axe meeting only thin air, and he turned too far, overbalancing and exposing his side and back. Without hesitation, Burlic launched himself at the man’s back, toppling him to the ground, landing on top of him with his
full weight. The axeman screamed as his ravaged face was driven into the dirt. Burlic recovered quickly, sitting up and astride the man, pinning him down. With both hands, Burlic gripped the man’s neck, forcing his fingers around his throat, squeezing, crushing. The axeman tried to twist away, his arms flailing, one hand still waving the useless axe in the air. He choked, vile, guttural noises hissing from his throat. And then it was over. The axeman’s body slumped, and Burlic felt the life of his enemy slip away. He waited a moment and then released the man’s throat, watching him carefully— just to be certain. Burlic stood and took a deep breath. He looked from the dead axeman to the body of the bowman. This was their hunting ground, and they’d fought to protect it. Burlic sniffed, taking in the tang of fresh blood. I’d have done the same, he thought. He walked over to the bowman’s body, pushed him onto his back with his foot. A talisman dangled from a braided-leather strap around the dead man’s neck. As the body rolled, the talisman swung across his bloodied chest, and Burlic bent over to look more closely. The talisman was a smooth, flat disc, carved with an intricate design of curling lines. Carefully, Burlic picked it up. “Beautiful,” he whispered. How could a man make such a thing? He put his hand to the flint knife at his belt and hesitated, struck by a sudden thought: He’d killed two men, and he hadn’t even drawn his knife. This was a strange day, and it would make a good tale. But that was for later. Now he must make sure the men’s Shades could leave their bodies. He took out his knife and, clutching the talisman firmly in his hand, he cut the leather strap. He stood and returned to the axeman’s body. This man’s talisman was covered in blood. Burlic
wiped his thumb across its surface. The carved design was similar to his companion’s. He dragged his knife across the strap, the fine flint edge slicing easily through the blood-soaked leather. Burlic held both talismans together in his palm and took a deep breath. He looked up and checked the height of the sun. There would be plenty of time. And he knew what he had to do.
CHAPTER 3 1944 ON THE MORNING OF THE DAY HE DIED, Wing Commander Butterworth stood at the edge of the runway and watched the single-engine Miles Messenger come in to land. He rocked back and forth on his heels and smiled as the pilot executed a perfect landing, the plane almost gliding to the ground. Good man, he thought. And a nice little plane too. Butterworth looked up into the clear autumn sky and scanned the horizon. Not a cloud in sight. He was looking forward to this. Looking forward to this trip, looking forward to his tour of the airbases in the North. He’d shake them up and get them moving. He took a deep breath, baring his teeth to the cool, crisp air. This is it, he thought. At last, they were getting somewhere. The tide of the war was turning. He could almost taste it. There are great days ahead, he thought. Great days. And he’d play his part to the full, starting here, with this perfect day to be up in the air. As the Messenger taxied to a standstill, Butterworth turned to the two men who’d be travelling with him. Harvey, his batman, was already bending over their bags, checking the leather luggage straps were fastened securely. This other chap was a bit of a mystery—an aircrew sergeant, urgently needed up North, apparently. So when his Group Captain had mentioned they could give him a lift, Butterworth had been happy to agree. It
was always good to keep in touch with the NCOs—they were the ones who could tell you if the men were battle ready. And they’d need to be. Now, what was his name—Cornet? No, that wasn’t right. Butterworth gave him a nod, smiling to himself as the man snapped to attention for the umpteenth time. “Ready to go, Sergeant?” The man stared straight ahead as though on parade. “Yes, Sir.” “Very good. Stand easy, Sergeant,” Butterworth said. “Yes, Sir,” the man said. He relaxed his shoulders slightly, moved his feet apart a little, but remained upright and alert. Butterworth gave him an approving glance. He looked like a solid character, salt-of-the-Earth type. “Sergeant,” he said, “could you just remind me of your name?” Startled, the man shot him a sideways look. “Sergeant Corbett, Sir.” “Ah yes.” He gestured toward the plane. “So tell me, Corbett, what do you think of the Messenger, eh?” Sergeant Vincent Corbett turned to the plane. The doors were open now, and a small knot of ground crew fussed around the fuselage while the pilot stood to one side, stretching his legs. “Very good, Sir,” he said. “Very reliable.” He hesitated. “I believe Monty, I mean Field Marshal Montgomery, uses them, Sir.” Butterworth laughed. “Well, if it’s good enough for Monty, it’s good enough for us, eh?” Corbett smiled uncertainly. Had he made a joke? He’d no idea. There was no understanding these officer types. Harvey cleared his throat. “They’re ready for you now, Sir.” “Very good,” Butterworth said. “Harvey, you ride up
front. I’ll share the back with Corbett.” Corbett opened his mouth to protest, but Butterworth slapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, Corbett,” he said. “Let’s not keep them waiting.” He turned and strode toward the plane. Harvey looked Corbett up and down, pursing his lips. “Certainly, Sir, I’ll just stow our bags, Sir.” He picked up their luggage, pointedly leaving Corbett’s bag on the tarmac, and marched off toward the plane. Corbett bent down and picked up his bag. Riding with a Wingco? If the lads could see him now, they’d take the mick and no mistake. He sighed. The pilot was already in his seat. What choice did he have but to go along with it? *** As the plane levelled off, Butterworth turned away from the window and raised his voice over the thrum of the engine. “Well, Corbett, we’re on our way,” he said. “So tell me, why are you going up North in such a hurry?” Corbett swallowed hard. His ears hadn’t popped properly. “Operational Training Unit, Sir. I’m to train navigators.” “Good man,” he said. “Can’t sort the buggers out if we can’t find them, eh?” “No, Sir,” Corbett said. He wanted to say that there was a bit more to it than that, but he knew better. He folded his arms and stared ahead. It would be good to be back in the North, good to be near his hometown. He could probably get some leave and pop over to his house and give it an airing. He closed his eyes and tried to picture his front room. What colour was the carpet? He shook his head. It was no good. He should’ve visited earlier when he’d had the chance. But first he’d been stationed down South, and then Africa and Italy. Since
he’d been back in England, he’d made excuses and stayed away. Now his little house would be damp and neglected. He’d been away far too long. Butterworth cast his eye over Corbett’s morose expression. It looked like the sergeant wouldn’t be such good company after all. The man was in a world of his own, staring into space and moping like a love-struck lad. And that may well be the problem, he thought. Woman trouble. He’d seen it all too often. The man needed cheering up, that was all. Butterworth sniffed. No need to get involved. Best to let the chap’s CO sort him out when he gets there. After all, he thought, I’ve plenty of my own work to do. He pulled his leather briefcase onto his lap, undid the straps and pulled out a bulging cardboard folder. His heart sank at the thought of all the documents inside. And they were all to be sifted, read and mastered. He picked up the first piece of paper, a memo from the War Office, and stared at the mass of close-set typing. Impenetrable. He glanced toward Harvey in the front, but he’d be no help there. He needed him by his side. Damn it. He’d have to plough through it all himself. He scowled and returned to his papers. There was no doubt about it—insisting that this man, Corbett, sit next to him, had been a terrible mistake.
CHAPTER 4 2007 I PUSHED THE TROWEL as far as I could into the cold, hard earth and levered up a small clod of gritty soil. At this rate, I thought, we’ll still be here next Christmas. “Dad,” I moaned, “I told you we should’ve brought a proper spade.” He laughed. “We didn’t have time to get one,” he said. “You were in such a rush to get going.” “Huh,” I muttered, “only because I had to pry you away from the TV.” He laughed again. “I thought that’s what Boxing Day was for.” He bent down and picked up the metal detector. “Do you want to try somewhere else?” I sat back on my haunches and looked around. The Common all looked the same to me: a bleak stretch of straggly heather, dotted with clumps of tough, brown grass. “Not yet,” I said. “I’ll dig a bit more. The metal detector beeped so there must be something here.” I bent back to my task, holding the trowel with both hands and stabbing it furiously into the pathetic hole I’d made. “Maybe you didn’t have it adjusted right,” Dad said. He swung the metal detector around and studied the control panel. “Don’t change it,” I said. “It took me ages.” “All right,” Dad said. Reluctantly, he put the detector back down. “Just trying to help.”
“Well don’t.” I changed my grip on the trowel and drove it down into the ground, felt it bite through the earth. Suddenly, the blade hit something hard and came to an abrupt stop. My hands slipped down the handle, and my fingers hit hard against the trowel’s top edge. “Bloody hell,” I hissed. “I beg your pardon,” Dad said. I smiled up at him. I didn’t care that he’d moan at me for swearing. I didn’t care that I’d hurt my hand. “Dad,” I said, “I’ve found something.” He raised his eyebrows. “Really?” “Yeah, really.” I dug for all I was worth, scraping away the soil, delving into the dense, stony ground. There. The distinct rasping of metal grating on metal. I widened the hole, following the line of this mysterious metal object. Dad squatted down beside me, peering into the hole. “Go on,” he said, “you’re doing really well.” I grinned to myself, and kept digging. Soon I had a decent-sized hole. At the bottom, under the loose soil and stones that kept sliding back into the hole, I caught a glimpse of rust. This was it. I pressed the tip of the trowel against it, sliding it along the hard edges of my find, tracing out its shape. It was long and thin, narrowing to a rounded point. I gasped, could it be the blade of a short sword? That would be better than gold. I scraped away more soil, poking my tongue out between my lips as I worked. “Oh,” Dad said. His voice was flat, disappointed. I stopped digging and looked up at him. “What?” I said. Dad looked me in the eye. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know what it looks like…but it isn’t.” “What?” I said. “How do you know?”
Dad sighed. “Well, for a second, I thought it was a sword too, but then…” He pulled the glove from his right hand and reached into the hole, brushing away some soil from the flaky rust. “Then I saw this.” He pointed to where he’d exposed a broader piece of metal that lay at right angles to the long strip. I stared and searched for the right word. “The hilt?” I said. Dad shook his head slowly. “I’m afraid not,” he said. “It’s a hinge. One of those long ones you get on big shed doors.” My shoulders slumped. He was right—of course he was. I sat back, looked down at my hands and tried to rub away the ingrained soil. All that effort for nothing. “Never mind,” Dad said. “We can have another go.” I didn’t look up. I shook my head. Dad put his hand on my shoulder. “Come on,” he said. “Tell you what—next time, I’ll do the digging.” I shrugged. “And if we don’t find anything,” Dad said, “we’ll go home, and I’ll make you…I know…curried beans on toast.” I looked up at him and half smiled. “I thought we had to have cold turkey today.” “Stuff the turkey!” Dad said. I laughed. “You crazy old man,” I said. “That’s the spirit,” he said. He stood, and reached out his hand to pull me up. “Come on. Let’s get going.” *** I stopped walking and swung the metal detector slowly back across my path. There. The tone in my headphones rose and fell. Dad stood and looked at me expectantly. I nodded and took the headphones off. “Right there,” I said, pointing.
Dad frowned. “There?” he said. “You’re winding me up. It’s a bog.” I sniffed. “It’s not that bad,” I said. I stepped forward and felt the ground give a little beneath my feet. Black, peaty water squeezed up onto the surface, threatening to soak into my trainer. When I pulled my foot away, there was an audible squelch. Dad shook his head. “Let’s call it a day. It’s probably just more scrap metal.” I gave him a sharp look. There was no need to remind me about what I’d found so far. “You said you would dig,” I said. He sighed. “OK, OK,” he said. He squatted down and pointed with the trowel. “Here?” “Right a bit. There.” He set to work, muttering, “I don’t know—the things you do.” I pushed my hands into my coat pockets and watched him dig. He didn’t want to do it, not really. He’s doing it for me, I thought. Sticking to his promise. But maybe I should’ve let him off this time. I chewed my lip. It would be OK. Dad was warming to his task now, and the ground was soft. The hole was a good size, though I couldn’t see the bottom for the dark water draining into it. I shuffled my feet, imagined the damp seeping in through the soles of my shoes. A shiver ran through me. I turned my face to the wintry sun. Somehow, it made me feel colder. And I was getting hungry too. “Dad,” I said, “maybe we should give-” But Dad shot me a look. “My god,” he whispered. “What? What’s the matter?” “I…I think I’ve found something.” He pushed his sleeve up his arm and plunged his bare hand into the cold, murky water, his eyes narrowed in concentration.
I held my breath. “It’s round,” he said, “round and flat. Like a disc. But it’s stuck in the mud.” He reached farther into the hole, groping blindly in the mud. His sleeve slipped down and dipped into the filthy water, but he didn’t notice, didn’t care. I squatted down next to him, craning my neck to see. The bottom of the hole was a mess of peat-black water, thick with churned mud. I couldn’t see a thing. “What is it, Dad? Can you pull it out?” He didn’t answer. He shook his head and frowned, still scrabbling furiously in the slippery mud. “Dad, please,” I said. “Tell me what it is.” He stopped and looked me in the eye. “No,” he said, “I can do better than that.” And when he lifted his arm out, I saw what we’d found.
CHAPTER 5 3540 BC CLEOFAN RAN A HAND OVER HIS FACE and sighed. This time, it had been harder to slip away to the pit. And the climb up to the ledge had taken longer. This time, there’d been…a complication. He shook his head. What was done, was done. I’m here now, he thought. I’ve made my decision, and must live with the consequences. He raised his eyes to the horizon. Soon, the sun would dip toward the distant hills, sending long shadows to snake through the pit. Then it would be too late. Too late to do what must be done. It was now or never. Cleofan crossed the ledge and, bowing his head, he knelt down before the Darkeningstone. Slowly, slowly he raised his eyes, and allowed his glance to skip across the sacred stone. And his breath caught in his chest. The Darkeningstone lay before him in all its glory, a perfect slab of pure black stone. He gazed at its immaculate proportions. It was longer than a man was tall, as wide as a man’s outstretched arms, and the perfect height for Cleofan to kneel and look down upon its flawless surface. And it was his. He had found this treasure, had uncovered it, releasing it from its hiding place among the lifeless stone. “I’m the only one,” he whispered, “the only one who understands, the only one you’ll allow.” He bit his lip and, almost despite himself, he reached out an unsteady
hand toward its cold perfection. His fingers trembled, brushing against the stone’s sharp edge. A flash of blue light flickered across the stone, and Cleofan jerked his hand away. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t have… I… I wasn’t ready.” And yet, he must make himself ready, control his thoughts. He had a task to perform. Cleofan put his hands up to his face and rubbed his tired eyes. Last night, the stone had slipped into his mind as he’d slept, had murmured its lonely message into his dreams: The secret must be shared. It was time to pass the sacred duties to the man who would one day take his place. Cleofan’s knowledge must not die when he passed into the Shade World. And so, he had made his decision, his choice. Now, he hesitated. It was too great a responsibility. What if he’d made a mistake? He took a deep breath. He could not deny the will of the Darkeningstone, but perhaps he should choose someone else, someone older. “It’s not too late,” he muttered. “What’s not too late, Father?” Cleofan blinked, refocused his eyes beyond the Darkeningstone. Across the ledge, his son, Waeccan, sat on the ground, idly arranging a collection of smooth stones into patterns in the soil. Cleofan studied his son. The boy was eleven years old. All he thought about was hunting and fishing. Soon, he’d become a man, and then he’d want to build a hut, take a wife, tend a patch of earth. No, he thought, I can’t allow that. His son was meant for greater things. And this was where he must begin. Before it was too late. Cleofan raised his hand and beckoned his son. “Come here, Waeccan,” he said. The corners of Waeccan’s mouth turned down into a
frown. Oh no, he thought, what have I done wrong this time? He’d only been playing to pass the time. Cleofan forced a smile. “Come forward, Waeccan,” he said. “I want to show you something.” Waeccan stood slowly and dawdled across the ledge. As he neared his father, he gave the dark stone slab a sideways look. It’s so big, he thought. Bigger even than my father. He shuddered. There was something about it he didn’t like, something that scared him. It was too flat, too straight, and too…unnatural. “Come, Waeccan,” his father said, “kneel here, by my side.” Waeccan swallowed and did as he was told. When he knelt down, the stone seemed even larger. He could only just see onto its flat top. He looked up to his father. What was he meant to do? “Look, Waeccan,” his father said. He gestured to the black stone. “This is the Darkeningstone.” “The Darker…the Darkeningstone,” Waeccan mumbled, his tongue tripping over the unfamiliar word. Cleofan nodded. “That’s right, Waeccan. And what do you think the Darkeningstone is?” Waeccan swallowed. “Is it…is it something to do with the Shades?” Cleofan raised his eyebrows and nodded in approval. “Very good, Waeccan, very good.” There was hope for the boy. Waeccan smiled nervously and looked up at his father. But Cleofan did not return his smile. He turned back to the dark, forbidding slab of stone. ”I want you to look into the Darkeningstone,” he said. And his voice was low, an insistent whisper. “I want you to look deep into it. And I want you to tell me…tell me what you see.”
Waeccan’s eyes were wide. He’d never seen his father like this. His stomach squirmed. He quickly scanned the ledge. There was nowhere to run to, no hiding places. And anyway, his father would be furious if he did that. No, he thought. I’d better do what Father says, and just try to get it right. Waeccan narrowed his eyes and looked down onto the dark stone. And he gasped.
CHAPTER 6 3500 BC BURLIC STOOD AT THE EDGE of the lake. He looked to his left and his right, scanning the shore, taking in the lush, green reeds that softened the line between water and solid earth. He closed his eyes for a moment and listened to the gentle shush of the reeds in the breeze. Finally, he gazed across the water and watched the sunlight flicker on the surface. His sharp eyes picked out the faint ripple from a fish dimpling the surface as it fed. He took a deep breath and released it in a long sigh. Yes, he thought, this is the place. He knelt and dipped his hands into the clear water, rubbing them together. He watched the dried blood soak away from his skin, clouding the water. He reached for the pouch at his belt and pulled out the two talismans. Carefully, he unthreaded the remains of their braided straps and dropped the scraps of leather onto the ground. The straps were not important, they held no power. He turned the talismans in the light, once again admiring their perfect roundness and the skill in their carved markings. What power did the patterns hold? What spirits were they dedicated to? Burlic sniffed. I’ll never know, he thought, but it doesn’t matter. When it came to it, they hadn’t been strong enough to protect the men who had worn them. He took one talisman in each hand and, holding them
gently, he dipped them into the water. He turned his hands over so that the talismans lay in the palms of his hands, and uncurled his fingers. He rubbed his thumbs over the talismans, until the delicate patterns were pristine. Burlic smiled. The time was right. He rose to his feet, looked upwards and took a deep breath. “Here at the joining place,” he called, “I bring the strength of these men.” He stretched out his arms in front of him. “These men were my enemies,” he said, “but they died bravely.” He looked back to the talismans and placed them both in his right hand. “Shades, I call on you.” He drew back his arm, and looked out across the water, picking out the right place. “I call on you,” he yelled, “to let them pass.” And in one smooth, powerful action, he hurled the talismans over the lake. The smooth discs span and whirled in an arc, catching the light, then fell, tumbling through the air. They slipped into the water at exactly the same moment. The two small splashes sparkled and were gone. Only ripples remained. And Burlic stood perfectly still and watched until the last of them had faded away.
CHAPTER 7 2007 DAD OPENED HIS HAND and smiled triumphantly. Squatting next to him, at the edge of the hole he’d dug, I squinted at the grimy round object in his hand and wrinkled my nose. More junk. “What is it?” Dad stared at me. “Can’t you tell? Look closer.” Dad held the thing out toward me. All I could see was a flat disc, coated in mud. What was Dad getting so excited about? I craned my neck to examine it more closely. There. Beneath the layer of mud, there was something. “What are those marks?” Dad rolled his eyes. “For goodness sake,” he muttered. He dipped his find back into the hole and swirled it gently through the water. When he took it out again, it was clean and clear to see. “Do you see?” he said. The disc was corroded, but most of the original black paint remained. And there, around the edge, the white and green markings were clear to see. “Yeah,” I said. “Numbers. Is it a speedo?” Dad looked at me and gave a heavy sigh. “No,” he said patiently. “It only goes up to nine. Look.” “Oh yeah. What then?” “This is the key thing. This here.” Dad tapped the disc. “All right,” I muttered, “keep your hair on.” I looked
closer. The letters were scratched and scuffed, but I could just about make them out. “A, L, T,” I said. “What’s that, the brand or something?” Dad sighed. “Everything isn’t a logo,” he said. “It’s an abbreviation—short for ‘altitude.’ It’s an altimeter, from a plane.” “Oh.” I smiled as the penny dropped. “Of course.” I looked at Dad. “But what’s it doing here?” Dad tilted his head to one side. “I don’t know for sure,” he said, “but it probably crashed.” “Wow.” A plane crash. It wasn’t the sort of thing that happened so close to home. It didn’t seem real. And yet here we were, digging up part of it. “Here,” Dad said, “take a closer look.” He offered it to me and, gently, I took the flat metal disc from his hand. I looked down at the altimeter’s scratched face. I’d seen ones just like it in the old war films Dad liked. I pictured the luminous hands that would’ve shown the plane’s height. Had those hands spun backward as the plane plummeted toward the ground? Had the pilot bailed out? Had anyone been killed? I looked up at Dad. “What sort of plane do you think it was?” He shook his head. “I’ve no idea,” he said. For a moment, he looked thoughtful. “But maybe, if we have another go with the metal detector, we might find some more clues.” He grinned. “If you want to, that is.” “Yeah,” I said, “we can’t stop now.” I handed the disc back to Dad and jumped up to my feet. Maybe we’d find something bigger next time, something really cool, like a joystick. Maybe even some bullets. I grabbed the metal detector, and slid the headphones over my ears. I flicked the power button and looked at Dad. “Let’s get started,” I said. “And next time, it’ll be my turn to dig.”
CHAPTER 8 3540 BC WAECCAN GAZED at the dark stone slab. And as he let his eyes wander over its strange surface, he gasped. This wasn’t right. Stone was dull, solid. But this…this was different. As he watched, the stone’s surface shifted and stirred, grew darker. It’s like the deep, cold water of the lake, he thought, when you dive down too far. And now he understood why his father had told him to look into the stone. Suddenly, the black rock seemed to fall away before his eyes, like a dark tunnel plunging into the earth. His stomach lurched. How could this be happening? He must look away, but then, what was that? For a moment, he thought he’d seen something, something inside the stone—a speck of light, as blue as the night sky. Waeccan blinked. No. He must’ve made a mistake. He mustn’t tell Father, it would only make him angry. Waeccan kept his head down, kept his eyes on the stone. He cocked his head to one side. What was that noise? A faint hissing and crackling, like damp wood on a hot fire. Was he imagining it, or could his father hear it as well? Waeccan opened his mouth to ask, but then…there it was again—the glimmer of blue light. And another, darting across the stone, stronger, brighter. It was beautiful, like watching ripples in the river by moonlight. Waeccan smiled. Now he knew why this Darkeningstone was so special. And then it began.
The hiss rises to a roar, drowning out all other sound. It fills Waeccan’s mind. He wants to put his hands over his ears, but there’s something wrong with his fingers. He looks down at his hands. He can’t move them. They’re too cold. No. They’re frozen solid, like a carcass buried in the snow. Waeccan opens his mouth to cry out, to call to his father for help, but it’s too late. The sound catches in his throat. He can’t turn his head away, can’t move. He can only watch as the icy numbness slides its thin needles through his flesh. It creeps along his arms, spreading across his shoulders, his neck, his face. And then, suddenly, as the cold darkness overwhelms him, Waeccan can see. The demon tears through the air, a growling nightmare rushing toward him. Waeccan cannot look away, cannot even close his eyes. And it hurts. It hurts inside his head. He can’t breathe. His chest aches, burns. But something grabs him and holds him tight, squeezing the breath from his body. And it whispers, whispers without words, and Waeccan understands. He knows the man is coming, knows this man has seen the Darkeningstone and has tried to take it for himself. This man can no longer be trusted to keep this sacred place secret. He must be stopped. And now, Waeccan’s mind has only one thought: The stone must be protected. Over and over, the words burn through his mind. He looks deep into this vision, focusing his mind upon the monstrous creature of the air, piercing it with his savage thoughts. And suddenly, it is done. The demon whines and drops from the sky, spinning and fluttering through the air like a falling leaf. Waeccan hears it slam into the ground. He feels the wash of heat over his face as the creature is consumed in flames. In a matter of moments, it is gone.
And the Darkeningstone sighs and whispers, and finally, it lets him go. Waeccan’s young body crumpled to the ground, his lips trembling, and his eyes closed. Cleofan stared at his son in disbelief. He reached out and touched the boy’s forehead. It’s all right, he thought, he’s warm. Suddenly, Waeccan moaned, and his father drew his hand away. The boy would live. But what had he seen? Cleofan stood and gazed at the Darkeningstone. He ran his hands over his face and tried to understand. “I know,” he said. “I know what it means. He has the gift.” Cleofan smiled. His son had the gift, and the Darkeningstone had chosen him. Of course. What other explanation could there be? And now, things would have to change. Cleofan paced the ledge. There’d be no more games with the other boys for his son now, no more hunting and fishing. He was ready, and he must begin his training right away. And it would have to be kept secret. But how? Everyone would expect Waeccan to build a hut and take a wife. They’d expect him to raise a family, to hunt and grow crops to feed his kin. Cleofan frowned. And then he saw the answer. “We could live here,” he muttered, “here in the pit.” He strode over to Waeccan and bent over to shake his son’s shoulder. Waeccan moaned. His eyes fluttered open. He coughed and raised a hand to rub at his temple. “Come on, Waeccan,” his father said. “Up on your feet.” Waeccan used his arms to push himself up off the ground. He rose shakily to his feet. “My head hurts,” he groaned. “Never mind that,” Cleofan said. He reached out and
placed his hands on Waeccan’s shoulders. “You’ve done well, very well.” Waeccan managed a weak smile. His head wasn’t so painful now, but every time he moved, the world span and swayed. “Father, can I have a drink?” But Cleofan shook his head. “Later,” he said. “Come on, my boy. We’ve got a hut to build.”
CHAPTER 9 1944 SOON, WING COMMANDER BUTTERWORTH was hard at work, immersed in a world of memos and standing orders. The engine droned, and time slipped away. He picked up another blurred carbon copy and scanned it. Hadn’t he read this one already? He blinked and rubbed his tired eyes. Maybe I’ll finish the rest later, he thought. He checked his watch. Good, they should be landing soon. He needed to stretch his legs. Suddenly, Corbett twisted in his seat, straining to see out of the window. He was a big man, and as he turned in the narrow confines of the cabin, his elbow dug into Butterworth’s arm. The Wing Commander bristled. What on earth did the fellow think he was doing? “I say, Corbett,” he said. “Are you quite all right?” But he didn’t get a reply. Corbett craned his neck toward the window, staring down and off into the distance. He ran a hand over his face. Were his eyes playing tricks? Or was he really looking down on the place where he’d spent nineteen years of his working life? He could scarcely believe it. He’d tried not to think about it for so long. He searched for a landmark, a fixed point that would prove him wrong. But no. There was the church spire, the ribbons of road, even the high street. There was no mistake. This was his home. And beyond the huddle of
houses, spreading from the town’s side like a malignant growth, a barren stretch of pale grey rock: Scaderstone Pit. He took a slow breath. It was all right. He’d known they’d fly close by. I just wasn’t prepared for it, he thought. It was just a shock seeing it like that. He let his eyes roam over the pale-grey scar on the landscape, the place where he’d made his living for so long. From the air, it was almost worse than a bombed-out battlefield, so utterly empty, so purposefully laid to waste. “So ugly,” he whispered, “such an eyesore.” Wing Commander Butterworth wasn’t accustomed to being ignored. “Listen, Corbett,” he snapped, “what’s going on here?” Corbett flinched and turned away from the window. He couldn’t look Butterworth in the eye. “I’m sorry, Sir,” he said. “I didn’t mean to…cause an upset. It won’t happen again.” “But whatever were you staring at, man?” Butterworth demanded. “Is something wrong with the aircraft?” Corbett’s mouth hung open. “Oh no, Sir,” he said. “Nothing like that. No. It’s just, I saw the place I used to work—the quarry. It caught me unawares. It looked so different from up here.” Butterworth ran his fingers over his moustache, smoothing it down. “Well thank god for that,” he said. “The way you were carrying on, I thought the ruddy wing was dropping off or something.” “Sorry, Sir. I don’t know what came over me.” He hung his head. He’d done it now. Butterworth studied the man’s woebegone expression. And he had an idea. He half rose from his seat and tapped the pilot on the shoulder. Startled, the pilot glanced over his instruments then
reached up and pulled the flap of his flying helmet away from his left ear. He leaned back slightly, keeping one eye on the view ahead. He forced a humourless smile. This would be a damn sight easier, he thought, if the Wingco would wear the correct headgear. Still, a Wing Commander must be humoured. “Yes, Sir?” he called over his shoulder. “I say, Johnson,” Butterworth said. “Can you take this thing lower for a bit?” Captain Johnson nodded slowly. Typical top brass, he thought, has to interfere, can’t let a chap just get on with his job. But he kept his expression blank. “Certainly, Sir,” he said. “The Messenger can go as low and slow as you like—built for it.” “First rate,” Butterworth said. “You see that quarry down there on the right?” Johnson raised his eyebrows. What was all this about? But he dutifully scanned the ground, fixing the quarry’s position and bearing in his mind. “Yes, Sir.” “I want you to make a low pass—nice and slow. Let us have a good look at the place.” Johnson checked the fuel gauge—it was fine. And so far they’d made good time. Besides, what choice did he have? “Will do, Wing Commander.” He shifted the joystick and pressed the rudder pedals. As the plane began to bank and turn, he called back to the Wing Commander: “Sir, with the greatest of respect, I suggest that you return to your seat.” Butterworth smiled. “Will do,” he said cheerfully. He patted Johnson on the shoulder and sat back in his seat. He smiled at Corbett. “This’ll cheer you up, Corbett,” he said. “Give the old place a buzz, eh?” But Corbett was pale, anxious. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. A sheen of sweat formed on
his forehead. He’d heard most of Butterworth’s conversation with the pilot, and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit. He opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly he felt the plane fall away from him as the pilot started a gentle dive. Vincent swallowed hard. There was nothing he could do. “Chin up, Corbett,” Butterworth said. He reached across in front of Vincent and pointed out his window. “Look, we’re coming around. If only your old workmates could see you now, eh?” Despite himself, Vincent obeyed and looked out of the window. And there it was: the bleak grey stone, rushing up to meet them. He ground his teeth together. Just get through it, he thought, it’ll all be over in a minute. And maybe it would be all right. After all, he’d been away for years—maybe it would all be different now. He clung to that thought, and let his eyes search out the far end of the quarry, willing himself to see nothing more than barren stone. But no. The dark patch of green was unmistakeable. The only living thing in the pit—a tangle of bushes and stunted trees still clinging to the slope. It’s still there, he thought, the slab of dark rock hidden on the ledge, concealed by the trees. He looked away, a cold sweat beading on his brow. He didn’t want to see it. He’d promised himself he’d never have to see that place again. He closed his eyes and tried to think of home. But all he could see in his mind was that damned ledge, the accursed block of jet-black stone. He didn’t want to remember, didn’t want to think about what had happened there. He saw it often enough in his dreams. He pressed himself back as tightly as he could into his seat and groaned. Captain Johnson checked their bearing and altitude and levelled off for a nice, straightforward pass over the
quarry. He frowned. For a moment, he thought he’d seen a flash of light glinting across the glass-fronted gauges. No. Everything was fine. It was probably just a reflection. Even so, with a Wing Commander in the back he wasn’t taking any chances. He’d better keep an eye on the instrument panel. If it was an electrical spark, he might have to ditch. He glanced down at the quarry as they passed. Ugly place. Why on Earth would the Wingco want to see that? It was just a hole in the ground. Ah well, he thought, orders are orders. And it was done now. They could get back on course. As the quarry dropped away behind them, he pulled the aeroplane up into a banking turn, climbing, setting them up to return to their original heading. And that’s when it happened. A blue light arced across the instruments. Johnson stared as the artificial horizon span erratically. The altimeter needle twitched and vibrated and the air speed indicator fell to zero knots. He blinked. It didn’t matter. He could fly this plane without a single instrument—he’d done it before. But he’d need to make an emergency landing. He started the procedure, and opened his mouth to start the proper radio messages. And the joystick jolted, almost jumping from his hand. He moved it left to right, back and forward, but it was limp, useless. He tried the rudder pedals. Nothing. He’d lost control of the plane. He reached out to the co-pilot’s joystick, but that too was useless. This can’t happen, he thought. It was impossible, wasn’t it? He swallowed. And at that moment, the engine stuttered and died.
CHAPTER 10 2007 MR. DREW NARROWED HIS EYES against the weak winter sunlight and turned to gaze across the Common. He felt the familiar tingle along his spine as old memories stirred. He bit his lower lip. I shouldn’t come here, he thought. But he had to exercise the dog somewhere, and the Common was convenient. At least, that was what he told himself. He cleared his throat. Time to get moving. Otherwise, his knee would start playing up again. But first, he had to find his damned dog. He licked his dry lips and whistled as loudly as he could. He waited, listening for an answering bark. Nothing. He shook his head. The cold crept into his toes. He stamped his feet. I never used to feel the cold, he thought. For a moment, he pictured himself sitting in his cosy armchair by the fire, a hot cup of tea in his hand and the pick of the Boxing Day films on the telly. But it was no good daydreaming. The picture wouldn’t be complete without Frank curled up by his feet. He raised his hands to his mouth. “Frank. Come here, boy.” He turned his head, listening. Nothing. He’d have to go and find him. He picked out the place where he’d last seen Frank galloping into the distance, then he took a deep breath and strode out across the Common. “I’ll wallop that blooming dog,” he muttered. But he knew
he wouldn’t do any such thing. Frank was a big dog, like all German shepherds, but he was still young, not much more than a puppy. And he still had that endless energy, that excitement at every scent, every stranger. He’ll learn, he thought. He’ll settle down. Eventually. He paused and scanned the horizon. Away to his left there was a patch of woodland, and to his right, a clump of hawthorn. Frank could be charging around in either. He pursed his lips and turned, hoping for some clue. There. A couple of people mooching about in the distance. A man and his boy, no doubt out for a walk. He set off toward them. Perhaps they’d seen Frank. By the time he was close enough for conversation, the boy had wandered away, his head down, intent on studying the ground. He nodded at the man. “You haven’t seen a dog, have you?” The man shook his head. “Sorry. But that doesn’t mean much. We’ve been concentrating.” He smiled and added, “We’re looking for lost treasure.” Mr. Drew looked the man up and down. Was he pulling his leg? “Is that right?” he said. The man gestured toward his son. “Trying out the new metal detector.” So that was it. He looked at the boy more closely, this time noticing the black rod of the metal detector as the boy swept it carefully from side to side. Mr. Drew shuddered. A sudden chill swept across his skin. “You haven’t…” he hesitated. “You haven’t found any then?” The man tilted his head. “Treasure? No.” He rummaged in his pocket and held out his arm. “Just this,” he said, and opened his hand. Mr. Drew stared at the altimeter’s metal face. He took a deep breath. It could’ve been worse. Much worse. He
looked the man in the eye. “It crashed,” he said. “In the war.” The man looked doubtful. “In the war? What, shot down? ‘Round here?” Mr. Drew lowered his eyes. “No,” he said. “Just an accident. A stupid, senseless accident.” The man studied Mr. Drew for a moment. “If you don’t mind me asking,” he said, “how do you know?” “How do you think?” The man’s eyes were wide. “Oh, my god,” he said. “You were in it, weren’t you? You survived. Wait—I’ve got to tell Jake.” He started to turn away. Suddenly, Mr. Drew grabbed his arm and stopped him in his tracks. “No,” he growled. “You’re wrong.” The man stared at him. “What?” Mr. Drew released the man’s arm and stepped back. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to…” “Look, if I’ve offended you or something, I’m sorry but-” “It’s not that,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s just…he was a friend of mine.” “Oh.” The man looked down at the metal disc in his hand. “I see.” He looked back at Mr. Drew. “I’m sorry,” he said. “This must seem…disrespectful.” Mr. Drew nodded. He looked away, into the distance. He could see the tangled wreckage, smell the bitter smoke. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, it does.” And he turned on his heel and walked away. From the trees in the distance, he heard a loud bark.
CHAPTER 11 2007 I SLUMPED ONTO THE SOFA next to Dad, stretched out my arms and legs and yawned. Dad looked up from his laptop. “Did you enjoy your new toy?” I picked up a cushion and swiped it at him. “It’s not a toy.” He chuckled. “Only teasing. You know what I mean.” “Yeah,” I said. “It was good. Thanks.” He smiled and went back to his computer, tapping at the keyboard, engrossed. I watched him for a second. I wanted to ask him something. But when Dad was working on one of his “projects” it was best to leave him be. I picked up the TV guide and idly flicked the pages, looking at the pictures, listening to the clicking of Dad’s keyboard. But when he started his tuneless humming routine, I couldn’t wait. “Dad,” I said. “It would’ve been nice to…you know…find something else.” He didn’t look up. “Hm?” “I just thought we might find some more bits from the plane, that’s all.” Dad glanced up at me. “I know what you mean,” he said, “but I suppose they retrieved as much as they could when it crashed.” “I guess so.”
“You never know though,” he said. He shot me a knowing look. “There’s more than one way to skin a cat.” I sat up straight. “What?” I said. “Are you looking for stuff about the plane?” “Not looking for,” he said. “I’ve already found it—just now.” “Show me.” He turned the laptop so that I could see the screen. “This is a Miles Messenger—the plane that crashed.” I looked at the screen. “So, is this what the old man told you?” Dad frowned at me. “Have some respect,” he said. “And it’s not just him anyway. I checked. It’s true. Look.” He switched to a different browser tab, and the screen filled with text. I looked up at him. His eyes were alive with excitement. “OK, OK.” I put the magazine down and leaned forward so that I could read the page. It was all there: times, dates, eyewitness statements describing the crash. The plane just fell, they said. It had just tumbled from the sky. I shuddered, wondering what it must have been like for the men inside. Dad pointed to the bottom of the page. “Have you seen this?” The heading simply said, Casualties. I read the list of names, the pilot and three passengers, all dead. I sighed. What a horrible way to die. “Go back,” I said. “Show me the plane again.” “Uh, hang on. There you go.” I scanned the images. It was an odd little plane with three tail fins. But I liked it. It had character. “And take a look at this.” Dad selected an image, and as I watched, he zoomed in to the picture of the plane’s cockpit. And there it was. The altimeter was identical to the one we’d found.
“Wow,” I whispered. “That proves it.” A cold shiver ran down my spine. It was all true. The plane had crashed, men had died. And what had we done? Poked around and dug holes. It didn’t seem right. “There’s something else,” Dad said. “What?” He hesitated. “Now don’t be disappointed. I know you wanted to find something valuable.” I pulled a face. “What are you going on about?” “When I was searching for any finds up on the Common, I came across this.” Again, he switched to a new tab. This was a report from a local newspaper, dated December twenty-first— just a few days ago. The title: “Christmas Bonus for Local Farmer.” I read as fast as I could. A farmer, digging a drainage ditch on the edge of the Common, had unearthed two pieces of ancient jewellery. He’d taken them to the local museum, and they’d brought in an expert. According to her, they were from Neolithic necklaces or amulets. They hadn’t been able to work out the value yet, but it was likely to be high. The amulets were buried deep in the water-logged peat, and that had preserved them. The expert said that, considering their probable age, she’d rarely seen such intricate carving and never in such beautiful condition. And, there were two of them, a matching pair. They weren’t just rare, they were unique. Museums around the world were already showing an interest. I looked up at Dad. “Aw, we were so near. How come we didn’t find something like that?” “Well, it would’ve been nice,” he said, “but you know, we didn’t stand much chance.” “Why not?” Dad chuckled. “Neolithic,” he said. “Stone Age. They
didn’t have any metal for you to detect.” “Huh.” He ruffled my hair. “Don’t worry,” he said, “you keep looking.” I gave him a small smile. “You’ll find something special one day,” he said. “I know you will.”
EPILOGUE 2014 Detective Sergeant Myers picked his way carefully down the steep slope. The bracken had been trampled down by those who’d been first on the scene, but since it had been drizzling all morning, the flattened undergrowth was damp and treacherous. A bramble snagged the leg of his trousers and he cursed under his breath as he freed himself. Christ, he thought, what a dump. He looked down the slope, beyond the crime scene tape and toward the abandoned quarry. It was a neglected and dismal place. Much of the ground was covered with dense bracken, the rest was bare rock, or mud. A scattering of spindly trees grew up at awkward angles, or leaned against their neighbours, broken and rotting before they’d had the chance to fully grow. Myers took a breath and carried on down the slope, keeping his balance by holding onto each slender tree trunk that he passed. It’d be just my luck to fall on my backside, he thought, especially with him watching. He glared at the young constable who’d been left to guard the crime scene. Although the man was trying to hide his smirk, there was no doubt he was enjoying the detective’s discomfort. I can’t blame him, Myers thought. If I’d been left alone in here, I’d be ready for some entertainment. But Myers wasn’t in the mood for jokes. As he stumbled down the last few feet of the slope, he
thought back to the case file waiting on his desk: missing persons, grievous bodily harm, burglary, aggravated trespass, and some kind of botched kidnapping attempt. The file spanned four years, and none of it added up. But it was his job to untangle it, to build the chain of events, to catalogue the evidence, and interview the witnesses. He had to make sense of it. Somehow. Myers squared his shoulders and strode toward the crime scene. At least this part of the quarry was flat. As he reached the cordon of yellow tape, he set his jaw and showed his ID to the constable. The younger man knew exactly who Myers was, but he glanced at the offered ID anyway. “Morning, Sir,” he said, and lifted the yellow tape so that Myers could duck underneath. Myers scanned the area. “So,” he said, “have the white suit brigade done their bit?” The constable frowned for a moment. “Oh, yes, Sir. The scenes of crime team have finished. I was told to wait until CID arrived.” He shifted his feet and looked uncomfortable. Myers narrowed his eyes. “What is it?” “There was someone else here earlier. An inspector. He said he was Special Branch, but I don’t know. What would they be doing here?” Myers stared at the constable. “You let him in?” “Well, he had the right ID, Sir. There wasn’t much I could do.” Myers sighed. “OK,” he said. “You kept a note of his name of course.” “Yes, Sir.” The constable produced his notebook and opened it. *** On the road that ran behind the abandoned quarry, a
middle aged man, smartly dressed in a grey three piece suit, opened the rear door of his black BMW saloon and climbed in, pleased to note that the engine was already running. The driver watched him in the rear view mirror, waiting for his instructions. But his passenger was in no hurry. He was busy with his phone, tapping at the screen and smiling to himself. “Everything all right, Mr Crawford?” the driver asked. Crawford looked up. “Yes,” he said. “Let’s go.” The driver nodded and pulled the car out into the road. He knew better than to ask their destination. Crawford pocketed his phone and settled himself against the seat’s smooth leather upholstery. Yes, everything had gone well. He’d given a false name to the police of course, and he’d had plenty of time to work undisturbed. He made a mental note to shred the ID card he’d used. He took out his phone again. He couldn’t resist having another look. He swiped his finger across the screen and smiled. The photos had come out well. He’d covered every angle, captured every detail. At last, he’d found what he’d been searching for. It had taken him three years of painstaking research, but it had all been worth it. The stone was perfect.
Thank you for Reading Breaking Ground - I really hope you enjoyed it. I’ve put together a special Thank You Page on my website, where you can see a video from the author. visit: mikeycampling.com/thankyou
Get the Next Book for Free! Here’s a link: Start Reading
Two Reasons to Turn the Page Keep reading to see the afterword which adds more depth to Breaking Ground. Keep turning the pages to read sample chapters of Trespass—the first full-length Darkeningstone novel.
AFTERWORD I’m an awkward devil. I make life hard for myself. I write stories with several plotlines, involving multiple time periods and spanning over 5,000 years. And sometimes, as I’m bashing my head against the desk trying to make sure it all ties in for the reader, I wonder why I don’t just write a nice simple, linear story. But I know the answer: I love the complexity, the challenge. And I think it makes the story richer too. So I wrote Trespass, the first full-length Darkeningstone novel. And people liked it. But as a new author, it was always going to be hard to be discovered by readers. So I had the idea of writing a prequel that I could give away for free to give people a taste of my work and a glimpse into the world of the Darkeningstone. And that idea became Breaking Ground. All well and good, you might think. Easy. But I didn’t want to make it “episode 1”. The Darkeningstone books aren’t a serial. I wanted this book to stand apart and to deliver a flavour of what The Darkeningstone was about. Also, I didn’t want to cheat anyone who’d already read Trespass. This prequel had to serve as an introduction to new readers, and as a bonus book (a bit of extra value) to existing fans. So while it could be read after Trespass, I didn’t want to give any spoilers for new readers who are discovering The Darkeningstone for the first time. Does that make sense to you? Then perhaps you’ll agree that I set myself a hard task. But that’s OK—it’s what I’m here for. I poured my heart and soul into Breaking Ground. While it was always going to be a
short book, I wanted it to pack a punch and cover a lot of ground. But could it possibly introduce my style of fastpaced, multi-layered writing while also tying everything up and delivering every plotline neatly wrapped in a pink ribbon at the end? Probably not. Even so, let’s have a look at the paths and resolutions. Jake and his dad Jake is looking for something. He wants some mystery and excitement. Heck, at that age, who doesn’t? But he’s also at an age where his relationship with his parents is starting to get more complicated. His story, along with his dad, is all about delving into the past and making discoveries. Jake doesn’t find the gold he’s been dreaming of, and he’s even missed out on finding the Neolithic talismans (I hope I wrong-footed you there when he found a disc). But Jake and his dad have both held a piece of real history in their hands. And his dad has even met someone in Mr. Drew who has been personally touched by the tragic plane crash. History can be an uncomfortable business, and when you go sifting through it, you may be unprepared for what you find. That discovery is their resolution and it brings father and son closer together. Also, in the scenes with Mr. Drew, there’s a theme of remembrance. Burlic The Neolithic period is very much a part of the world of The Darkeningstone and I wanted to give you a glimpse of that brutal time. So what better, or more exciting, way of doing that than in a fight? For Burlic and his contemporaries, every day is a series of conflicts and resolutions. In this story, he fought and won and lived to tell the tale. And we know that his simple act of paying tribute to his fallen foes means that those men will be remembered—both in Burlic’s tales around the fireside
and 5,000 years in his future, when the talismans will be unearthed. Waeccan and Cleofan Cleofan faces a different conflict. He’d much rather keep The Darkeningstone to himself, but as well as a privilege, it’s a burden. The secret must not be lost to history, but passed on—remembered. And so he feels compelled to share his secret with his son. It’s a shock then, when the stone interacts with his son much more strongly than it ever has with him. And while that makes him proud of his son, it must also be hard for him to bear. But while Cleofan’s journey is almost over, Waeccan’s is just beginning and Cleofan’s resolution is that he accepts this fact. Waeccan would be happier to remain as a child for a while longer, but in his culture, it’s time for him to enter the world of men. He clearly isn’t ready for the burden, and the Darkeningstone finds him easy to manipulate. Resolution for Waeccan, means having some important choices made for him, by his ambitious and overbearing father. Vincent In my mind, Vincent gets a nomination for Best Supporting Character here. I love writing Vincent—he reminds me of the stalwart men of my own father’s generation. Like so many men in 1939, he has signed up to do his duty and worked hard without complaint. We know that he’s much in demand. And in the story, Vincent has an important role. Without him, there’d be no plane crash and nothing for Jake to discover. Unfortunately, this is the end of Vincent’s journey. The downside of including him in this book was that I couldn’t fully explain his relationship to the quarry where he used to work. That would be a definite spoiler, and so I
humbly ask you to accept Vincent at face value. Still, at least he is remembered by his old friend, Mr. Drew, whose dog walks are perhaps a thinly veiled excuse to regularly pay his respects to his old friend. We may only get a snapshot of Vincent, but we can be certain that he will be remembered. I hope that these notes give you some insight into my thought processes when I was writing Breaking Ground. Did you pick up on the theme of remembrance? To what extent are we haunted by the past? I’d be interested to know what you think. If you have any comments or questions, please feel free to email me at
[email protected], look on Twitter for @mikeycampling, or contact me via my website: mikeycampling.com
TRESPASS A Tale of Supernatural Suspense
Read on to get a flavour of the Darkeningstone books with some sample chapters of Trespass, the first fulllength Darkeningstone novel.
Nobody goes into the old quarry. Nobody. Until today. Three parallel stories spanning five thousand years, united by one deadly secret: Somewhere, sometime, the stone is waiting. Trespass combines the action of a gripping thriller with a historical mystery set in the ancient past, and blends supernatural suspense with time travel. Discovered over 5,000 years ago, the Darkeningstone affects everyone who finds it. Jake was too smart to believe the rumours about Scaderstone Pit, but now he’s in more danger than he could ever have imagined. In 1939, as World War II looms, the lives of two men will be changed forever. Over 5,000 years ago, a hermit will keep the stone a secret. But someone is watching him - someone with murder in his heart. But what will happen when these different worlds collide? How will the tales unfold?
And when it finds you, what will you see when you
look into The Darkeningstone?
TRESPASS CHAPTER 1 2010 IT WAS A SUNDAY. My day with Dad. The one day in the week I saw him. That was what they’d agreed. It was supposed to be good, supposed to help me. But somehow it only sharpened the feeling of separation. I could never eat breakfast on a Sunday. I stayed in my room, watched cartoons meant for much younger kids, pretended I wasn’t waiting. And above all, I tried not to listen for the phone, tried not to dread it too much. It didn’t work. And when the phone rang just minutes before Dad was meant to pick me up, I knew what was coming. “Jake, I’m really sorry. I can’t make it today.” “Aw, Dad. Not at all? Not even for ten minutes?” I heard him sigh. “No. Not at all. I’m so sorry. I’ve got this interview coming up tomorrow, and I’m just…I’m just not ready.” “But we were going bowling. It was your idea.” “Yes. Yes, I know. But…if I get this job it’ll change everything. It’ll mean more money. Then I can move out of this pokey flat and get somewhere better. You could have your own proper room. You could stay over. You could come for weekends, maybe a whole week.” “But you’ve never taken me bowling before. Never.” “Oh hell. Look—I’m really sorry. I just can’t. Not today. I’m up to my ears, otherwise I’d definitely…I’d…oh, what’s
the use? But listen, I’ll make it up to you. I promise.” “But Dad…” “Yes?” “That’s what you said last week.” *** Mum, as always, was furious. “How could he do that? How could he?” I looked at the floor, shrugged. “He’s doing this deliberately. He knows I’m going out with…” She hesitated, gave me a sideways look. “He knows Joel’s taking me out today. Well if your Dad thinks I’m going to drop everything and cover for him, he’s got another think coming.” I sat, pretended to listen, tried to tune her out. I picked at a tiny hole in the knee of my jeans, my good jeans. I made the threads fray, split apart; watched the hole grow. Mum didn’t even notice. *** So instead of going bowling, I sat in the kitchen on my own. I ate a hastily defrosted lasagne, on my own. Stared at the greasy smears on the empty plate. I tried phoning Matt—we often hung around together. But his family were going out to a pub for a slap-up Sunday lunch. I tried ringing a couple of other friends, but just got their voicemail. I couldn’t be bothered to leave messages. I went into the lounge, chucked myself down on the sofa and grabbed the remote. I watched trash TV until I started hurling insults at the presenters. “You know what?” I said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d reckon I was talking to myself again.” I smiled to myself, muttered, “I’ve really got to get out more.” I took the public footpath that goes from the end of our road. As I walked I dragged my feet through the dusty gravel, watched the stones scatter. The dust stung
my eyes, I could feel it in my nostrils, taste it in my mouth. I stopped walking and fished in my pocket for a tissue. I blew my nose, spat on the ground, the spit making dark splashes in the pale-grey dust. I rubbed my eyes, blinked. And that’s when something among the dusty stones caught the light. I scanned the ground, and there it was again. I bent to look closer. It was just a stone—perhaps a little larger and darker than the rest. Nothing special, except that it was veined with bands of some sort of crystal—maybe quartz. Dad would know exactly what the crystal was. He’d be interested. He’d tell me all about it—there’d be no stopping him. I reached toward the stone, already imagining the conversation I’d have with Dad. But as I curled my fingers around it, I hesitated. Would Dad really be interested? Would he? Would he even listen to me? I stood up. “No,” I whispered. “He couldn’t care less.” I swallowed hard, sniffed. Bloody useless; everyone, everything. A complete waste of bloody time. I lashed out, kicked the stone, and sent it skittering along the path. I didn’t want the damn thing. I walked up to it, kicked it again, farther this time. But I could still see it, dark against the grey path. I jogged toward it, planted my left foot perfectly and swung my right with all my strength. My kick connected beautifully. The stone rose into the air, glinting in the light. I watched it bounce and skid along the path. I ran after it, determined to get it out of my sight. But the stone kept rolling. It tumbled across the path, slowed for a moment as it crossed the path’s edge, then rolled under the fence and was gone. I stood, looking stupidly at the fence, getting my breath back. The anger drained away, left me empty. Maybe I should’ve taken the stone after all. Perhaps Dad would’ve been interested. Maybe I should’ve given him
that chance. But it was too late now. The stone was gone for good. The fence was close-boarded and maybe two metres high. And beyond it was Scaderstone Pit—the old quarry. There was no way I was going in there just to get a stupid lump of rock. For a moment, the stupid stories about the quarry ran through my mind: the rumours of deadly toxic waste, dumped in the dead of night; the urban myth of the small boy who’d picked up a stick of discarded dynamite, only to have it blow up in his hand. I snorted. The truth would be much less exciting—it usually was. There would be weeds, an old mattress and a supermarket trolley. Still, the place held my thoughts for a moment. The fence was so solid, so forbidding. I wonder, I thought, what’s it really like in there? Then I smiled, shook my head. A load of rubbish—in every sense of the word. I turned to go. And that was when I realised I was no longer alone on the path. Coming toward me, and already close, were three girls. My heart sank as I recognised them. They went to my school, but two years above me. Matt called them the KFC girls—partly because their names were Keisha, Felicia and Cass, and partly because it suited them. They ruled the roost, or thought they did. They were “popular.” But then, as Matt liked to say, so was the plague. And here they were, all in one bargain bucket. Wasn’t I the lucky one? I won’t run, I thought, I won’t give them the satisfaction. Maybe they’ll just ignore me. But no—they’d got their eyes on me. I was younger than them, and I was on my own. I was fair game. They knew it, and so did I. “What you doing, jumping over?” They snickered. “Yeah, he’s trying to get away from us.”
“Poor boy, he’s shy.” I said nothing. Curled my fingers into fists. Tight. Hands hanging at my side, heavy, useless. I shut my eyes for a second, but the wishes didn’t work. The ground did not swallow me up; a heavy object did not fall on the girls. They swaggered closer, forming a semicircle around me. I automatically stepped back, felt the fence behind me. I was trapped. I lifted my chin, tried to look each of them in the eye. But their faces blurred, their names whirled in my mind. I couldn’t remember which one was which. The tallest one spoke first. “So what about it then? You going in there? Going to go and play soldiers with the dynamite?” I remembered then. She was Felicia, the mouthiest one. Cass was the one with all the makeup on—she kept getting into trouble about that at school. So the other girl was Keisha. I looked dumbly from one to the other. Keisha looked me up and down and shook her head, sucked her teeth. Cass wiggled her eyebrows, said, “Yeah. You going to blow your fingers off like that other kid?” That was too much for me. “What other kid?” I blurted the words out, surprised at the strength in my own voice. As one, the girls raised their eyebrows, shifted their heads back, and pursed their lips. My cheeks burned. But I couldn’t stop myself. “What other kid? There was no other kid. It’s all just made up, just…crap.” I’d done it now. I’d gone too far. Felicia held my gaze, narrowed her eyes. She didn’t like what she saw. I’d broken the rules. I wasn’t supposed to speak to them like that. Now she had to teach me a lesson, make me suffer. My eyes stung. I blinked, tried to
stay stony faced, tried not to show the nerves eating away at my stomach. The other two looked at Felicia, waiting for her to decide what to do with me. I waited, stopped myself from biting my lip. Sweat pricked my forehead. I didn’t wipe it away. And then Felicia laughed. I held my breath. The other girls shared a look, then took their cue, laughed along. I took a breath and almost joined in. Almost. But it was joyless laughter. And they hadn’t taken their hard eyes off me. Not for a second. Felicia said, “Oh my god, girls. We’ve got a live one.” “Yeah,” said Cass. “Real live wire.” Keisha cackled. “That’s right. He don’t look like he’s got it in him.” Felicia stopped laughing, shook her head and looked away. I thought that was it. I thought she’d had her fun, lost interest in me. The tightness in my stomach relaxed a little. But it wasn’t over yet. Without warning, she turned, stepped close to me— too close. Suddenly her right hand was in front of my face. I flinched, followed her accusing finger as it pointed at my left eye, my right. Her voice was a harsh whisper. “But you listen to me, live wire. It don’t matter what you think, you don’t talk to us like that. You don’t disrespect us. ‘Cos if Cass says there was this kid who blew his fingers off, then there was, and you don’t get to say any different. That right, Cass?” “Right. ‘Cos it was a mate of my brother’s what told me. And you know my brother, don’t you?” It wasn’t a question. I nodded anyway. Keisha didn’t want to be left out. “Unless you’re saying Cass’s brother’s a liar. Are you calling her brother a liar? Do you want us to tell him you called him a liar?” My mouth wouldn’t work for a second. “No. That’s
not…I mean…no. I didn’t mean that. I just thought it was, you know…an urban myth.” It sounded pathetic. Felicia sniggered. “Looks like little live wire’s lost his spark.” Keisha said, “Yeah. Loose wire more like.” Felicia was suddenly all boredom and contempt. She sucked her teeth. “Yeah, more like loser. I should’ve known it. This one’s a waste of our time, girls. He’s not going anywhere, he’s not doing anything.” Cass agreed. “Yeah. He’s doing nothing.” She sniggered. “And we thought he was going in there. Look at him. He couldn’t get over that fence, even if he did have the bottle.” “Which he definitely does not,” Keisha added. They studied me, utterly unimpressed. And waited. A silence. I looked at each of them in turn. What did they want from me? What could I do to make them leave me alone? “All right,” I said. “I’ll do it.” I swallowed, but it was too late to take the words back. “I’ll climb over.” The KFC girls didn’t speak, didn’t react. There was no way they were going to let me off the hook now. I blundered on. “I can do it,” I said. “It doesn’t bother me.” I turned to face the fence, stretched up. “See,” I said. “I can reach the top.” And it was almost true. “Yeah, right,” Felicia said. “And that’s as far as it goes.” “No,” I said. “Just you watch.” And I was doing it. Jumping, grabbing the top of the fence, hauling myself up. My feet slipped against the smooth surface. I grunted, willed myself upwards. One more heave, and I was there, at the top. I turned and sat on the narrow edge, facing my audience. I’d done it. I’d shown them. But what was going on? They weren’t even looking. They
had their heads together, muttering. “Hey,” I said. “I told you I could. Easy.” They looked up, as if surprised that I was still there. Keisha said, “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Felicia just curled her lip. Cass said, “What about…you know…” She cast me a dark look. “Shouldn’t we tell him?” “What?” I said. “Tell me what?” Keisha thought for a moment, tutted. “Listen,” she said. “See that old guy up there?” She angled her head back along the path. I twisted around to see, but the path curved out of sight. “No one there,” I said. “You’re winding me up.” But Keisha shook her head, genuinely exasperated. “Look,” she said. “Properly.” I twisted farther, leaned forward as far as I dared. And that’s when he came around the bend in the path. The man was old. He had the usual brown overcoat, the flat cap, the walking stick. But he was no hunched dawdler. This man was tall, impressive. His shoulders were broad, his back straight. And he didn’t walk; he marched, swinging his walking stick, stabbing it into the ground as he went. And beside him trotted a dog. The dog was…huge, but that isn’t the right word—it was imposing. It was part Alsatian, part wolf. Suddenly it stopped. It had seen us. It sidled away from its owner, clearly not on a lead. But so what? Surely the infamous KFC girls were not worried by one old man and his dog? The old man looked to his dog, followed its gaze. He stood still, stared—first at the girls then at me. Even from a distance it was uncomfortable. I opened my mouth to say something, but the look on Keisha’s face stopped me. A shout—the old man calling his dog. I watched it
dart to his side, where it stood, alert. The old man looked down at his dog, said something quietly. Then slowly, deliberately, he turned his attention back to me. “Oh my god,” I whispered. “He’s going to –” I didn’t get to finish. The old man cut me off, bellowed a single word: “Set!” He raised his stick, pointed it at me, jabbed it in the air. The dog launched forward. It didn’t bark, it didn’t swerve. It just pelted across the space between us, closing me down. And the old man set off after it, marching as fast as he could. And all the time he was shouting—furious, rambling. “I’ve got you,” he shouted. “I’ve got you this time!” What had I ever done to him? He must’ve made a mistake. “No,” I said. I shook my head. “No, not me.” But no one was listening to me. And no one cared that I didn’t deserve this. “See you later, live wire—maybe.” And KFC girls were walking away. What did they care? They could take care of themselves. And anyway, it was me the old man was coming for – his arms swinging, his coat flapping, and his dog ready to tear me apart. The height of the fence wouldn’t save me. The dog would leap at my dangling legs, drag me down. Or the man would grab me from my precarious perch and hurl me to the ground. Jump down, I told myself, jump down and run away, you might make it, you just might get away. I looked down, judged the distance. If I landed wrong, if I slipped, if I twisted my ankle. Just do it. If you stay here you’ve had it. I held my breath, took my weight on my arms. And that’s when it happened. I felt my right hand slip, felt the burning in my left shoulder as my body twisted, felt my weight drop away from under me. My arms flailed as I grabbed for the fence. I felt the wood against my fingers, felt my nails scrabble against it, and felt it slip past my fingertips. It was no good. The world
lurched, and I was falling. Falling backward. Falling into the quarry. I saw my feet sailing up against the sky, saw my hands outstretched into thin air, and saw the fence gliding away from me in silent slow motion. And then I hit the ground. I landed awkwardly; my right shoulder took the full force of the impact, my back slammed onto the ground, knocking the breath from my lungs. I lay for a moment, gasped for air. Was I OK? “I’m not sure,” I said. I sat up, wincing as a piercing pain flashed through my shoulder. I held out my arms, flexed my fingers and a sharp sting arced across my right hand. The wound was long and jagged, right across the back of my hand. Blood seeped out, trickled across my skin, tracing a pattern through the dust and dirt. How did that happen? I wiped some of the blood away with my fingers. It wasn’t too bad—just a scratch. But I needed to get up, needed to get it clean. My legs were half-buried in dead leaves. I gave them a stretch, wiggled my toes; they seemed OK. I put my good hand on the ground, pushed myself forward and stood up. I brushed the leaves from my jeans. “I’m all right,” I said, then felt ridiculous. No one cared. “I’m all right,” I repeated, louder, just to hear the words. Had the KFC girls gone? “Hey!” I called out. “What’s going on?” This time I got a response, although I had to strain to hear it. “Live wire? You loser!” “I don’t believe it, he’s gone in.” “What’d he do that for?” “No way—he fell in. I told you, he hasn’t got the bottle.” “Listen, live wire, we got to go now.”
“Yeah, but I’d stay right there if I was you. That old guy catches you—he’ll set his dog on you.” “That’s right. He’ll chew you up proper.” Their voices were fading rapidly now. “See you later, live wire.” “Watch out for the bogeyman.” “Yeah, and get a plastic bag—to put your fingers in.” Their whoops and cackles dwindled into the distance. “Wait,” I said. “Come back. Help me out of here.” But I didn’t shout it. There was no point. I stood, looked at the sheer height of the fence. There was something wrong. Something…No. Why hadn’t I noticed before? Why hadn’t I looked? I went right up to the fence, stretched my arms up as high as I could. My shoulder burned, but my fingers were nowhere near the top edge. It was obvious—the drop was farther on this side of the fence— much farther. There was no way I could climb out. I felt in my pocket for my phone. But who would I call? Mum was out for the day, and Dad was miles away. The fire service? The police? I was trespassing. Breaking the law. The KFC girls certainly weren’t going to help me— they’d gone. “I’m so glad you’ve had your fun,” I said. I banged my fists against the fence in frustration. No one was going to help me. I was trapped, and if I was ever going to get out of there, I’d have to find the way myself.
TRESPASS CHAPTER 2 3500 BC WAECCAN WAS OLD—unnaturally so, some said. He slept an old man’s fitful sleep, riddled with disconnected dreams, muddled with distant memories. But tonight it is not his dreams that disturb him, but something real— something alive, something close. Waeccan snapped awake, lurched upright, called out into the darkness. “Who’s there? Father? Is it you?” No answer. Waeccan shivered. What had woken him? What had he heard? He shook his head to rouse himself, dispel the confusion of waking. It didn’t help. He was drained, couldn’t think properly, hadn’t been able to for days—not since… His father’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “No, my son. Don’t think of that. Don’t let fear steal your thoughts.” “No, Father.” But he had heard something. Something nearby. Whispering or rustling, like someone wading through dead leaves. “Hold your breath, Waeccan, listen.” Silence. If he could hear it again, he could identify it. An animal perhaps; the pounce of a night hunter, the scrabbling of its prey. He’d often heard these sounds on nights as still as this. So why was he so afraid? The answer pushed itself to the front of Waeccan’s
weary mind—it was him; the stranger, the intruder, the sinister interloper who’d slipped secretly into Waeccan’s world. It was no use denying it. Waeccan shuddered. Who was the intruder, and why had he come to torment him? Waeccan did not know, but one thing he had discovered—the intruder was inhumanly stealthy. He could easily have crept close, could even have stolen into his hut as he slept. Waeccan rubbed his eyes, scanned anxiously for any sign of trespass. Moonlight shone through the hut’s doorway, threw mischievous shadows onto the stone walls. There was nothing out of place. But that proved nothing, gave no comfort. What should he do? “Father? Father, I…” “Shh, Waeccan. Listen again. Close your eyes. Focus your senses, as I taught you. Listen.” Waeccan tried. Despite his fear he closed his eyes, let his breathing slow and allowed the ambience of his familiar world to wash over him, flow through him. There was nothing. All was as it should be. Waeccan opened his eyes. Whatever had woken him was no longer nearby. Or so he hoped. Waeccan shuffled around on his bedding, turned to face the doorway. As he moved, his glance fell on his father’s bed. He didn’t like to look at it; its emptiness saddened him, even though it had been empty for more years than he could remember. He looked away, peered through the doorway and into the darkness outside. “Better not to dwell on it,” he muttered to himself. Otherwise the lonely seasons would stretch out in his mind, become an endless succession of desolate winters. “At least I have your words, Father,” he said. “For when I need you the most.” “It is my gift to you, Waeccan, my bequest from the
Shade World.” “Thank you, Father.” And Waeccan was grateful. It went some way to make up for his loss. “Father,” he said, then hesitated. He’d learned that Cleofan’s Shade came and went of its own free will. It gave advice when it wanted to, but he couldn’t command it, he couldn’t question it too closely. Waeccan pursed his lips. He needed help. He would take the chance. “Father, someone has come here—an intruder. I do not know who or why. I know he hides. I know he watches me. But I don’t know what to do.” A silence. Waeccan hung his head, certain that Cleofan’s Shade had gone. But then, from close by, he heard his father’s voice again. “A villager?” Waeccan thought for a moment. “I can’t be certain. I don’t think so. They fear this place. They won’t come here after dark. But I feel the intruder has been here all day.” “Yes, the villagers are ruled by their foolish fears. But fear can move men in strange ways—it can bring suspicion, even violence.” Waeccan swallowed, dry mouthed. This wasn’t what he’d wanted to hear. “He is a threat?” “Perhaps. But remember, my son, they need you, they need your skills.” Waeccan nodded, unconvinced. “Yes, Father.” “Tell me what happened.” Waeccan forced himself to concentrate, to order his muddled memories. “All day long I’ve had the feeling someone was there. Little things. A twig snapping. A bird’s warning call. And I was almost certain I was being watched.” He paused. So far, it was an unimpressive tale. He hurried on. “But then…I saw him.”
“Tell me.” Waeccan spoke quickly now, relieved that Cleofan was listening. He told his father how it had been evening, the end of a hard day’s work. He’d been tending his fire, intent on coaxing the smouldering bundle of twigs into a flame. But the wood had been damp. It had steamed and spat but would not light. He’d added more from his precious supply of dry tinder, and blown gently, gently. At last he’d been rewarded with a lick of flame. He’d stood quickly, coughing from the smoke and damp air. He’d needed more dry wood, immediately. He’d rushed to the nearby hawthorn bush. It was old and dense—a good source of dry kindling. But as he’d stooped, parted the branches, he’d seen it. A pair of eyes—wild, staring at him, the face hidden in shadows. A dark figure. A boy— no, a young man, crouched with the poise and stillness of a hunter. A hunter watching his prey. Waeccan had called out, trying to hide the fear in his voice. “Who are you? What are you doing there?” For a moment, the figure had frozen, alarmed at having been discovered. And then he had gone. Slipped away, almost silently. Waeccan had called after him, more out of frustration than hope of success. “What do you want? Why do you hide like a coward? Show yourself if you are a man.” But the interloper had vanished. And Waeccan had hung his head, his eyes stinging with tears. Waeccan finished his account, took a deep breath and waited. Cleofan’s response was a long time coming, but when it did it was unusually stern and commanding. “Waeccan, outsiders must not learn our secret.” “No. Of course not, Father. But…but what shall I do? How can I stop him?” “You will do what is needed, whatever the cost. Do you understand?”
Waeccan was taken aback. He’d never known his father to sound so angry. He nodded dumbly. “But Father…he is young and strong; I am old. I cannot fight him. So how can I stop him, Father? How?” He waited. But there was no answer. “Father? I need…” But it was no use. Cleofan’s shade had gone. And there was no way of knowing when it would return, if ever. Cleofan sometimes stayed away for many days. In those long silences, Waeccan always feared his father had forsaken him forever, his grief like an old wound that would not heal. Waeccan sighed. What would he do without his father? Even tonight, as he’d woken, he had called out to him. When there’d been no reply, he’d been confused. In his dream, he’d been young again, working at Cleofan’s side. Now Waeccan tried to recall the dream, to cling to its simple happiness. When he’d been a boy, his father had always been nearby, watching over him, passing on his knowledge and his skills. The memory of Cleofan’s proud smile warmed Waeccan for a moment. But then the damp night air needled his aching joints. It would not let him forget his fears. He was an old man—old and alone, isolated and vulnerable. Waeccan sat, hunch-shouldered, and stared apprehensively out through the doorway. It started to rain, a fine drizzle lit by the predawn gloom. He could see very little. He shivered. Under his breath he cursed his tired and aging eyes. He would have to go out soon, attend to his duties. And what would he find? Would the intruder be out there somewhere, watching? It seemed inevitable. But what would he do about it? What could he do? His ordeal, though bad enough, had hardly begun. Waeccan thought of his father’s words, muttered them to himself: “Outsiders must not learn our secret…do what
is needed…whatever the cost…whatever the cost.” He looked at his gnarled hands, clenched them into fists. His father was right. Of course he was. This outsider threatened the purpose, the core of Waeccan’s existence. It would be right to drive him away, fight him and even to kill him. After all, the intruder could not be one of the villagers. Even if they’d overcome their fear of the place, no one had time to lurk among the trees day after day. It was beyond all reason. Waeccan would have to deal with him. And he would have to do it on his own. It would’ve been different, Waeccan thought, if I’d taken a wife, raised a strong son to protect me. But no. He snorted in contempt. Don’t be a fool, he thought. You’ve made your choices, accepted your responsibilities. Now the sky grows lighter, and you have duties to perform. Waeccan rose unsteadily to his feet. Whatever the day brought he would face it, just as he always had, with the help of the Shades. He would not fail them, would not fail the memory of his father. He must make haste. It was time to prepare. He stooped to pass through the doorway, then straightened his back to survey his realm. Its familiarity gave him a little confidence. This place was his world, his territory. Here he could practise his unique skills. Again Waeccan reminded himself of Cleofan’s words: They need you, they need your skills. He walked to the nearest rock face, reached out, laid his hand reverently against its pale, glistening surface, spoke to it. “I am the only one, aren’t I?” he said. “The only one you’ll allow. You wouldn’t stand for the foolish village folk, with their fearful fireside stories, trying to scrape away at you with their deer antlers. How they fear you. They only come here when they need my help. They don’t know how I coax you into good stone blocks, straight and true.
And they don’t want to find out. They only know that our stone makes fine, sturdy huts that will outlast them. They wonder how I stand this place, when it is you that has tolerated me all these years. I am your servant, and you are my protector, my Shades’ Stone, my Sceadu Stan.” The cool touch of the rock soothed Waeccan. He felt its strength flowing into him, trickling through his fingertips. The Shades were on his side. They would bring back the peace he needed for his work. The intruder was just a man—nothing more. He would be dealt with. Everything would be as it was meant to be. Waeccan allowed himself a grim smile. How strange it was that he, whose name meant watcher, had become the one who was watched.
TRESPASS CHAPTER 3 2010 I LEANED MY BACK against the fence and kicked at the dead leaves around my feet, then wished I hadn’t. The leaves were mixed with decomposing litter and filthy plastic bags, ankle-deep, piled against the fence by the wind. It smelt like a wheelie bin on a hot day. I wrinkled my nose. At least the leaves must’ve broken my fall, but what had scratched my hand? I looked back to the patch of disturbed leaves that showed where I’d landed—and gasped. There, just to one side—a jagged row of thin metal rods thrust upwards, the rusting skeleton of some metal contraption. The remains of corroded wheels stuck up into the air. It was upside down, but had once been a supermarket trolley. I rubbed my injured hand. The trolley was probably to blame. But if I’d fallen just a little farther to the right, I’d have landed on top of it…I shuddered, tried not to picture the metal tearing my flesh. “I told you,” I said. “I knew there’d be a supermarket trolley.” But this time I couldn’t smile at my own joke. I looked up to the top of the fence. I couldn’t climb over because I couldn’t reach the top. I had to find something to stand on. I went over to the trolley. Parts of it were rusted through completely, but at least it was already next to the fence. I pushed my foot against the trolley’s side. It didn’t move. I pressed my right foot onto it, to see if it would take my weight. It bent, but only a
little. Carefully, I stepped up onto what had once been its underside—first my right foot, then my left. The trolley settled a little into the soft ground, but it seemed OK. I leaned forward against the fence, stretched my fingers toward the top, balanced on the tips of my toes. Almost there. If I could just… “I know you’re in there!” It was the old man, roaring at the top of his voice. “I know what you’re up to, my lad. I’ll call the police.” I thought he’d gone, given up. But no, here he was, hammering against the fence. His dog barked, snarled ferociously. Startled, I pushed myself backward, away from the fence. I felt the rusted trolley give beneath me, heard it creak. I swayed. My fingers scraped the surface of the fence, found nothing to hold on to. It was fall, again, or jump. I jumped. I bent my knees, landed in a crouch. At last a gym lesson had come in useful. I breathed a sigh of relief. But the dog was still barking, the old man still yelling, “I can hear you! It’s no good hiding in there.” He pounded something against the fence. I guessed he was hitting it with his walking stick, and I had a horrible picture of him doing the same to me: lashing out, beating me down. “I know you can hear me,” he bawled. “Why don’t you just clear off?” I stood, leaned back against the fence. It was solid, strong. What could the old man do? Nothing. That’s why he was so angry. But I was getting fed up of his shouting at me. I’d had a tough day, and it wasn’t getting any better. I had a wicked thought. “Why don’t you clear off?” I shouted back. He stopped shouting. I giggled, picturing his face. His silence didn’t last long. “Right. That’s it,” he said. He wasn’t shouting now, but
he sounded very determined. “You stay right there, my lad. I’m calling the police.” He whistled for his dog, which finally stopped barking, and they were off. I breathed a sigh of relief. I was safe—for the moment. But if he really was going to call the police, and I didn’t doubt it, then I’d better get out of there. I turned away from the fence. The trolley had collapsed in the middle. It wouldn’t take my weight, but there must be plenty of other junk lying around. Surely I could find something strong enough to stand on, and then carry it to the fence. A quick scan showed there was nothing useful nearby. And a line of bushes prevented me from seeing farther in. I’d have to go on, into the quarry itself. But hey, what could go wrong? I waded forward through the debris and decaying leaves, felt them drag against my legs. The smell wasn’t great, but I could manage. “Come on,” I said. “You’ll soon be out of here.” Then, as I stepped forward, my foot just kept going down, sank straight into the ground halfway up to my knee. Cold water soaked though my sock, trickled into my trainer. Mud oozed against my leg. I closed my eyes, moaned to myself. “Oh, man.” I leaned back, steadied myself and tried to pull my leg out. At first it wouldn’t budge, but then there was a sickening squelch, and slowly, slowly my leg emerged. The sensation of slime and suction was unpleasant, but much worse was the rancid stench. I grimaced, tried not to breathe it in, tried not to think about what might be causing that smell. And then my foot was free, and I could inspect the damage. I didn’t like what I saw. The sodden leg of my jeans clung to me, black water staining it almost up to my knee. But the real pain came when I saw the state of my trainers. Ruined. I scowled at them accusingly. My best
trainers. The pair that was almost exactly like the ones I wanted. They’d both been white, but now, one was very definitely black. It was the last straw. I just wanted to get out of there. I glanced back to the fence. It was still too high. I shrugged my shoulders, muttered, “Nothing for it.” I turned back toward the quarry. I’d have to go farther in. But I hesitated. So far I’d narrowly missed being skewered by a shopping trolley, and I’d ruined a trainer in a bog. It was only a few metres across the deep, dead leaves, but even so. “What else is under there?” I wondered aloud. I could be a millimetre from sinking up to my knees—or worse. I’d never know until it was too late. But what choice did I have? I would just have to be more careful. I picked my way forward, lifting my feet high. At each step I nudged my feet carefully through the leaves, testing the ground. At each step I held my breath as I transferred my weight. If the ground was too soft, I tried another place. I tried not to think about quicksand and leeches, bodies found preserved in bogs, tried to put images of bear traps out of my mind. I said, “You’ve been watching too many cartoons.” Then I gritted my teeth and went on in silence. My thirteenth step took me out of the leaves and onto solid ground. I’d done it. In front of me, the straggly line of bushes was not as dense as I’d thought. I squeezed through a gap, ignoring the snags and scratches. And I smiled. It was astonishing. I stood on the floor of the pit itself. And it couldn’t have been more different than the dank shadow and debris of the quarry’s edge. The sun shone down onto the wide semi-circular sweep of the quarry floor, an inviting carpet of long grass and wild flowers. The sides of the pit curved away from me and
rose to form a magnificent amphitheatre. And I had just stepped onto the stage. I stood, with my head back, my mouth open, and stared from left to right and back again. Once, Dad had dragged me to York Minster. I’d sulked the whole way there, but once inside I couldn’t help but pick up on the magic of the place. There was just something impressive about the sheer space. I had that feeling now. I wanted to take it all in, absorb every sight, every sound. The edges of the pit, which must once have been brutal bare rock, were now softened by lush green plants. Bracken, ivy, brambles and ferns tumbled from every fissure, crept over every crumbling boulder. It was as though the plants were escaping, emerging from the heart of the dead rock where they’d been trapped and controlled by generations of quarry men. Now, free and unnoticed, they poured out like a living lava flow to reclaim the place for themselves. There were even small trees, scattered across the slope, growing out at impossible angles. A breeze ruffled through the undergrowth. I could almost see the plants edging forward, growing toward me. And along the top edge of the pit, my new horizon, was the distant hard line of a fence, just like the one I’d fallen from. I was fenced in, surrounded by this barrier between me and the rest of the world. But the star of the show was the pit floor itself. Dotted across it, standing like works of art in a surreal sculpture park, was a bizarre selection of objects. A huge old TV sat on a ripped armchair, its broken screen staring blindly in my direction. An upturned cast-iron bath pointed its feet toward the sky. A chest freezer balanced on its end, its door hanging open to display the silver interior. An ornate iron bedstead seemed all the stranger for being
the right way up. An old-fashioned lawnmower waited for a long-gone groundsman to return and finish the job. And then there was the prize. The main attraction. Some way away, right at the back of the pit. A car. And not just any car. Even at that distance the outline was unmistakable. This was an MG GBT, my favourite classic sports car. The colour was hard to make out, but it could’ve been British racing green. Fantastic. I whistled under my breath and whispered, “How the hell did that get there?” My dad would’ve gone mad at the sight of it. He loved classic cars—once he started going on about them, there was no stopping him. So it was no wonder that some of that interest had rubbed off on me. It was something we shared—or always had in the past. It was hard to see what we shared anymore. “Doesn’t matter,” I said. “I can’t tell him about it anyway.” For a moment I wondered what he’d say if he knew I’d been in the quarry. Then I jammed my hands into my pockets, pushed the thought away. I was meant to be finding something to stand on. But could I leave without taking a closer look at the car? “I wonder,” I said. “I wonder if it’s got the wire wheels.” A thought struck me, and I felt in my pocket for my phone. I could do it. I could take a picture of the car, show it to my friends. Otherwise, no one would believe it. Of course I’d still be looking for something to stand on, to get out of there. That was still the plan. “Right,” I said, and I set off to cross the pit floor.
TRESPASS CHAPTER 4 3500 BC BURLIC SCREAMED. He threw back his head and roared a single furious word into the night: “Waeccan!” The name erupted from him in a savage wail that rasped at his throat, over and over until he could shout no more. His howls echoed along the valley. In the village, the other hunters heard and exchanged glances, shook their heads and said nothing. The women clutched their talismans, told the children to go inside. They had tried to help, but there was nothing they could do for Burlic now. Burlic slumped, sat heavily on the cold, hard ground. He was drained, exhausted. He squeezed his eyes shut tight. And saw Waeccan’s face. It was the old man’s fault. Yes, he was to blame. He had used his dark magic to deal out this grief, this unbearable hurt. Burlic opened his eyes and stared up into the sky. Why had Waeccan done this terrible thing to him? Why? There was no reason, no way to know. Burlic could make no sense of it, and it bewildered him, made him weak. Burlic scowled. “Weak?” he growled. “Never.” He clenched his fists, pushed them into the ground. He didn’t need to know why Waeccan had done this—he only needed the strength to deal with the old man. My anger will be my strength, he thought. The rage surged through his blood. He jumped to his feet. “I will have my revenge on you, Waeccan,” he snarled. The old man
must die. It was the only way.
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ALSO BY MIKEY CAMPLING Trespass: A Tale of Supernatural Suspense— The Darkeningstone Book I Three stories, separated by five thousand years, united by one deadly secret: Somewhere, sometime, the stone is waiting. Trespass combines gritty, edgy modern-day action with a thrilling adventure across time. Discovered over five thousand years ago, the Darkeningstone affects everyone who finds it. Jake was too smart to believe the rumours about Scaderstone Pit, but now he’s in more danger than he could ever have imagined. In 1939, as World War II looms, the lives of two men will be changed forever. Over five thousand years ago, a hermit will keep the stone a secret. But someone is watching him—someone with murder in his heart. When it finds you, what will you see when you look into The Darkeningstone?
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And can they rescue Brond before it’s too late? 2014 Tom lives a life of quiet, orderly routine. He needs it that way. But when he sees a mysterious stranger, his life begins to unravel. Who is watching him? And why do they seem hell bent on ruining his life? To find the answers, Tom must confront his inner demons. And finally, he must face his past. 2018 Cally is working hard on her studies at university, so when she’s instructed to drop her research, she’s devastated. Will she give in or will she rebel? The decision is taken out of her hands when she finds herself caught up in a conspiracy. Why are the authorities trying to stop her research? And who can she trust?
Scaderstone Pit–The Darkeningstone Book III In the year 3550 BC, a woman runs for her life. She must find shelter before nightfall. But why is she so afraid? In 1919, the new owners of Scaderstone Rock prepare to open a quarry on the site. But what will they discover? Will the secrets of Scaderstone finally be unveiled? And in the future, what lies in store for Jake? He needs answers. But where can he turn? There is perhaps one person who can help him.
CHEATC0DE - The Downlode Heroes Book I Hank is a hero - he just doesn’t know it yet. Hank Settler is a gamehead - a hopeless high school loner counting the seconds until he can log in and play. But in the virtual battlefields of the near future, the world needs a new type of hero. Most people play the game: total immersion VR with full neural sync. But Hank lives it. In Unlimited Combat, he’s one of the best. He makes his own luck. And he plays solo. Until now. When a player offers Hank fame and fortune, it’s too good to pass up. To
succeed, Hank must fight harder than ever before, pushing past the game’s safety protocols. His life is on the line, and when he’s captured, he knows he’s in too deep. Can he escape? And who can he trust? Join Hank in the game—if you dare.
After Dark - Thoughtful Horror I When another body is discovered - a young woman washed up by the tide - it seems that someone stalks the streets of the nearby town of Whitby, after dark. Someone who preys on young women, and kills them in a very singular manner. And as crowds of Goths arrive to celebrate an annual festival, the scene is set for a gothic tale with a contemporary twist. After Dark is a horror story set in modern day Whitby, the town where, according to Stoker, a certain Count came ashore. In recent years, Whitby has held an annual Goth festival, and this surreal event sets the stage for a deliciously dark tale.
Once in a Blood Moon - Thoughtful Horror II England. A quiet stretch of wild countryside. An isolated farmhouse. And an American visitor taking a break from it all. It sounds idyllic, doesn’t it? But on this night, the full moon looms especially large in the sky - a supermoon. And this event just happens to coincide with a lunar eclipse, tinging the moon with red. But it’s probably safe to be outside at night. After all, some things only happen once in a blood moon. This is a contemporary horror story that will keep you guessing until the end.
A Dark Assortment - Thoughtful Horror III Sometimes that noise you can hear upstairs is just the old floorboards creaking as they settle down for the night.
Sometimes. But there’s no need to worry because that face you saw at the window was just a reflection. There’s no one else here. You’re alone. But that’s OK because you’re safe in your bed. And all those things you fear deep down in the dark reaches of your soul…well, they only happen in stories, don’t they? A Dark Assortment is a collection of seventeen stories; a chocolate box of handmade treats. But beware—beneath each richly decorated shell, there’s a seed of delicious darkness.
The God Machine Areva dreams of the day when he will become a Scribe and contribute to The Collective—the tethered souls, connected to the God-Machine. The Scribes write the Universe into existence, and it’s Areva’s destiny to join them. But as his time draws near, he hesitates. Perhaps the God-Machine serves a darker purpose.
Changes A collection of four stories on the theme of the changes that life can, and often does, throw at us. These stories may make you cry a little, but hopefully you’ll only shed a few good, healthy, life-affirming tears.
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COMING SOON The Trust - The sequel to CHEATC0DE Hank is back, and this time, he’s playing for keeps. Hank’s next thrilling adventure is due for release in early 2017. Don’t Miss Out The best way to keep up to date with Mikey’s new releases is to sign up for The Awkward Squad newsletter: Discover The Awkward Squad
ABOUT THE AUTHOR Mikey works hard at everything he does. As a teacher, he always went the extra mile to give kids the best start in life that he could. His particular passion was inspiring children to love books, and his lively readings were always popular. His proudest moment was when the parents of a young boy with Asperger’s Syndrome told him that their son was asking for bedtime stories for the first time in his life. Today, after a spell as a full-time dad, Mikey writes stories with characters you can believe in, and plots you can sink your teeth into. His style is vivid but never flowery; every word packs a punch. His stories are complex, thoughtprovoking, atmospheric and grounded in real life. Mikey has always read very widely, and his work is just as varied. There are three main strands to Mikey’s work: The Downlode Heroes - An ongoing series of fast-paced sci-fi novels with plenty of action and written using USA spellings; The Darkeningstone Books - A trilogy of novels plus a novella featuring supernatural suspense across time and set in the UK using British spellings (NB: These novels form an epic tale and are best read as a complete trilogy); Thoughtful Horror - Short, dark stories with modern settings and a twist in the tale. All Mikey’s works have one thing in common: respect for the reader. As a writer, he takes a professional approach, and he believes very firmly that errors are unacceptable. Judge for yourself and start reading for free! Get your
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COPYRIGHT NOTICE Editor: Jason Whited Copyright © 2013 by Mikey Campling All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.