LITMIR.BIZ

      COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

      Copyright © 2012 by Edmund Glasby

      Published by Wildside Press LLC

      www.wildsidebooks.com

      DEDICATION

      To Katherine and Robert

      THE DYRYSGOL HORROR

      An ancestral terror from the past had returned to prey on the villagers.

      Thunder rumbled briefly along the distant horizon, followed shortly after by a sudden flash of brilliance. The moon drifted behind a voluminous mass of dark cloud. Lightning flashed again, high in the heavens, as Detective Inspector Bernard Owen tried to concentrate on steering the car through the increasingly atrocious conditions. Several narrow farm tracks led off the road, but none of these were signposted, and most were little more than rutted paths leading apparently nowhere across deserted moorland and low, rounded hills that brooded oppressively on the skyline. Despite the fact that he had the car headlights on full beam, in the heavy rain, it was proving nigh on impossible to see anything clearly, giving the passing trees on either side a shadowy and menacing appearance.

      He had been out this way only once before, and it was with a growing sense of trepidation that he noticed how the surrounding countryside seemed to grow more sinister and sombre in its overall aspect. The car lurched and bounced over several potholes, and the road had now become so narrow that the thorny hedges slashed and tore at the vehicle on both sides.

      Another flash of lightning threw the dark trees into sudden stark relief, making them appear for a moment like startled ghosts. This was followed by a crash of thunder that seemed to shake the ground. Moonlight filtered through the dense, ominous clouds, throwing grotesque shadows across the landscape and illuminating the tall and foreboding shape of Dyrysgol Castle that now reared high on a hill directly ahead in an eldritch glow.

      Owen brought the car to a stop.

      There was a tight burning sensation at the back of his temples. The mere sight of the partially ruined castle set atop the hill before him, with its cracked and splintered towers and its crenellations silhouetted against the full moon, filled his stomach with a sudden wave of fear which threatened to push all other thoughts out of his mind, almost overwhelming him completely. His heart began to hammer against his ribs like a frightened beast. He closed his eyes tightly and tried to think calmly and logically.

      Despite the fact that he was a Detective Inspector, there was no denying the fact that he was scared and, not for the first time that evening, he wished that he had brought some of his constables along with him, or at the very least, some of the local villagers. For, once more, there had been a disappearance—this time a farmer from one of the outlying farmsteads—and it was his duty to carry out an investigation.

      As he sat in his car, staring up at the dark castle, he deliberated on the way in which he would initiate his questioning with Viscount Ravenwood, a man whom he had only met once before and a man who, clearly, was regarded with a great deal of suspicion and dislike amongst the highly superstitious villagers. There was no denying the fact that Ravenwood had done little to dispel the notorious reputation both he and his ancestors had earned over the centuries. For he had remained aloof and indifferent to local affairs, preferring instead to shun all contact with the village and to dispatch his manservant, Franklins, whenever the need arose to procure goods and necessities.

      Owen reflected on this, pondering just how strange it was for a man of reputed wealth to live the life of a self-imposed hermit. Had his inherited wealth somehow disposed him against living with people whom he believed were below his standing? Or was there something else? After all, he could have sold or even abandoned the castle and moved to sunnier climes. It was what he would have done if their positions were reversed.

      The rain outside was becoming heavier, although the thunder and lightning seemed to have eased somewhat. Gently chewing his bottom lip, Owen stirred the car into life once more and continued the long, uphill drive towards the castle.

      Passing through the entrance gateway, undoubtedly a once-grandiose structure but now reduced to but two columns surmounted by small, bloated, winged gargoyles, he could see, through the darkness, that there did appear to be lights on in the ground floor of the castle. The grounds he was now driving through levelled out slightly and he could see what appeared to be several ruinous, vine-festooned burial edifices, emerging, spectrally, from the darkness. Cracked statues lined the approaching drive, leering at him from the shadows, their faces seemingly frozen in anger at this trespass. Some were twisted and fractured, little more than shattered heaps of half-buried statuary, whilst others were huge and towering, giant shapes laden with malice, monstrous idols that stood sentinel over the approach to Dyrysgol Castle.

      What a place! Owen doubted if there was anywhere else in Wales that even resembled it, and as he drew his car up alongside the black, hearse-like vehicle that Franklins occasionally drove into the village, a sudden compulsion to turn the car around and head back flooded into his mind. It was small wonder, he thought, how this place, and its enigmatic owner, had managed to earn such a bad reputation. It was muttered in the village, and indeed, to some extent, in the wider district, that the Ravenwood family had long been associated with devil worship. It was held to be a distinct possibility that the current viscount still entertained such foul practices.

      Swallowing a lump in his throat, he reluctantly got out of the car and made a dash for the main entrance. He was just about to rap on the large, ornately carved knocker set in the middle of the iron-banded and studded door, when, to his surprise, he heard the sound of bolts being withdrawn from inside, and the door swung open, its un-oiled hinges squeaking protestingly, the sound not unlike that from a nest of dying rats.

      Franklins, the manservant, looked at Owen disapprovingly. It was impossible to read what thoughts were going through him, for his face was blank and impassive. He was tall and slim, well dressed, but there seemed to be nothing in his eyes, neither malice nor welcome.

      After an uneasy and slightly embarrassing moment, Owen said: “Good evening. I’d like to have a word with Lord Ravenwood, if he’s available.” Despite the fact that he was here pursuing a line of enquiry, and that he possessed all of the legal backing necessary to conduct his investigation, he felt uncomfortable just being here. Get a grip of yourself, he thought sternly. He was a Detective Inspector, had been for over twenty years, and besides, there was nothing to be afraid of here, or so he thought.

      Franklins stared at him for a moment longer, whatever recollection he had of Owen’s past visit, several months ago, not registering in the slightest, and it was abundantly clear that he was unrehearsed with any form of etiquette when it came to making a guest feel welcome. Eventually, he said in a monotone voice: “His Lordship is in. But he’s not to be disturbed.”

      “I’m here on official police business,” said Owen. “There’s been a disappearance. Another one. Now, if you’d be so good as to inform Lord Ravenwood that I’m here, I’d like to have a word.” An undertone of authority had returned to his voice. It would do no good, at a time like this, for the other to think that he was incapable of carrying out his duties.

      “Very well. Wait a moment, please.” Franklins turned swiftly, and made his way along the wood panelled hallway, the walls of which were richly decorated with tapestries, antlers, and heraldic shields. He then disappeared into a doorway on the left.

      Owen stepped inside and waited for the other to return.

      A minute or two passed before the tall, dark-haired form of Viscount Ravenwood stepped out from beyond the door with his manservant in tow. He was an aristocratic-looking man of handsome and yet sharp features possibly somewhere in his early forties. He wore a dark grey, strangely-padded jacket and a pair of black trousers. A thin film of sweat covered his face and strands of black hair hung damply against his forehead. It was clear that he had been engaged in some form of physical activity. But Owen’s eyes were not concentrated so much on the man’s appearance as on the heavy and dangerous-looking broadsword he carried in his right hand.

      “Lord

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