The Ghost Hunters Read Free Page B

the Rectory as ‘most haunted’ – or even as haunted at all?
    After Price’s death, some years ago, many complained that too much about the way he presented the case was – much like the man himself – vague and inconclusive. His critics attacked him in their droves, branding him ‘spiteful’, ‘deceitful’, ‘possessive’ and ‘self-seeking’.
    He was, I confess, all of these things. He was also my friend. I miss him, even now, in spite of the terrible things he did. And sometimes, in the small hours, I fancy I can still hear his deep voice announcing a new day’s work: ‘
Come, Sarah – let’s begin!
’
    And now the Society for Psychical Research also has its doubts due to the discovery of yet more inconsistencies in the evidence Price amassed: missing details, ill-substantiated facts and accusations. They are certain their investigation will bring them to the ‘truth’.
    Well, let them look, if they dare. They already know that at the moment of his death Price was writing the opening chapters of a third book on the haunted Borley Rectory. What they don’t know is that Price died in very mysterious circumstances and that in the months leading up to his death he was troubled with the worst nightmares imaginable: he thought he was being followed and he received something rather mysterious, rather dangerous, in the post.
    The world would be astonished to hear it, but I know that these events – his greatest investigation and his death – were connected.
    I know that his pursuers will find me. They will want my story.They will insist I reveal what I know. But they will never read this document, because the story it contains is for me – and for one other, should he ever find it.

– 2 –
FAMILY SECRETS
    January 1926
    It was a blustery Saturday evening, two weeks before my twenty-second birthday, when I first met the man known as the Midnight Inquirer.
    ‘I’m not coming.’
    That was selfish of me, I know, which was silly, because the last thing I wanted to do was hurt my mother’s feelings. From my position before a mirror hanging in the hallway I had a direct view of her as she sat in a deep armchair beside the fire in the drawing room, looking at that day’s edition of the
Morning Post
. And although she had lapsed into crestfallen silence, I knew she would repeat the question.
    ‘You’re quite sure you don’t want to accompany me, Sarah? Mr Price will be there in person! He is something of a phenomenon himself, a scientist who believes. They say he’s wonderfully eccentric.’
    ‘I dare say they do,’ I muttered, moving to the drawing-room window to peer out on to the raw evening. An omnibus clattered out of the fog, full of passengers swaddled in scarves, hats and overcoats, and across Westminster Big Ben chimed the hour.
    ‘But it’s a rough night,’ I said with deliberate misgiving, rubbing my arms as a chill shuddered through me. The house was far too large for just the two of us. We could never get it warm. There were perhaps twenty other town houses on our road in Pimlico, behind Victoria Station, but they were all nicer than ours. Our situation meant we could no longer afford to keep the house looking as we would wish.
    ‘Well, the newspapers say the laboratory is a marvel.’ I felt Mother’s pleading gaze pressing into my back. ‘Sarah, tonight’s the gala opening. Everyone’s talking about it. There will be tours. Also, it’s not all about the work, you realise – plenty of young men for you to meet, I’m sure of it.’
    I turned away from the faded red curtains to face her earnest expression. She was dark and tall with an oval face which was carved with lines that had come too early. The gold bracelet on her wrist reminded me of the woman she had once been: proud and confident, always immaculately presented in flowing dresses and wide feathered hats. Now I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. Her elegance had been eroded by the weight of her