Tomorrow's Ghosts Read Free Page A

Hopkins and M R James’ ghost stories.
    “Your whole diocese is based on the veneration of a Saxon king, Saint Edmund the Martyr, who was ritually murdered by the Vikings. Is it surprising this place is a veritable supernatural smorgasbord of ancient mysticism, ghostly manifestations, paranormal energy, occult influences and both black and white magical forces. By the way, as part of your patch are you responsible for St Margaret’s at Hopton-on-Sea?”
    “Yes,” she replies.
    “It’s one of those diocesan
peculiars
dating back to when Hopton was still part of Suffolk, rather than Norfolk where it now is after the county boundaries were shifted. Archdeacon Mitchell Jaffa did explain it to me once. Anyway, that’s a digression, the point is have you ever stayed overnight in the Old Vicarage there? And if you have, I bet you had bad dreams.”
    She shakes her head in disbelief. “How did you know that? Who told you? It was just the once and I had a horribly disturbed night’s sleep. One nightmare after another. But I put it down to the three-bean-and-chickpea vegetarian chilli con carne I had for supper in the village hall after a meeting with the churchwardens.”
    I wince at her description of the meal. “That’ll teach you to give peas a chance! Of course it could have been nothing more than chronic indigestion but did you know one of the most powerful ley lines on the planet, the
Great Saint Michael Line
running from Land’s End to the North Sea coast at Hopton-on-Sea, cuts across the parish. In fact it runs straight through the most ancient part of the Hopton vicarage. The ley line follows the path of the Sun on the 8th of May.”
    “That’s the Spring Festival of St Michael?”
    “Precisely, its influence is said to be at its most powerful and most dangerous at dawn that day. There’s a rumour, strongly denied by the Archdeacon I should add although that only gives it more credibility as far as I’m concerned, about one of your predecessors going mad after sleeping in the vicarage on such a night. Apparently he went to bed on the evening of the 7th of May totally sane but woke up the following morning in such an unhinged and demented state that he rushed out of the vicarage in his nightshirt and set fire to the church. That’s not the current church but the original St Margaret’s, which is now nothing more than a ruined tower and chancel. But come on, out with it, you still haven’t answered my question. What particular manifestation of the weird prompted you to seek me out today?”
    After a moment she answers me. “Have you heard of a character called John Patmos, who lurks around this parish and apparently claims to be the reincarnation of Saint John the Divine?”
    I’ve been asked some odd questions in my time but this one is so surreal it makes me laugh out loud. “Don’t tell me,” I reply, “John is scaring the natives again with his prophecies? He’s been telling little old ladies that at any moment the Great Whore of Babylon is going to sweep into Aldeburgh, astride the Seven Headed Beast of the Revelations, to carry off to Hell any senior citizens who’ve ever drunk anything stronger than cream sherry. So now a deputation of concerned parishioners has asked you to intervene?”
    She nods her head in agreement. “So you have heard of him?”
    “Oh, yes and let me guess, you asked the Archdeacon for guidance?” She nods again. “And he referred you straight back to me.”
    “Right again. In fact he said Lex Byter is the only man you need to speak to as he’s known Patmos for longer than anyone in this part of the world. So is he your friend?”
    I shake my head. “I suppose I have known him longer than anyone else although that’s not saying very much. But, I wouldn’t describe him as a friend, way too flakey for my taste.”
    “So?” she prompts.
    “So I guess I do have some involvement as I’m the person who first found him. Saved him from a watery grave.”
    “You