Powderfinger
Nick
Swann Investigates Book 1
by
Keller Yeats
Genre:
Horror
"Powderfinger"
is a present-day scary horror story set mainly on the decrepit,
abandoned but soon to be redeveloped, bank of an old canal between
two towns. It centres on an old tar works known as Raven's Gate. Nick
Swann is a world weary mid-forties widower and Assistant Probation
Warden at St Joseph's Hostel for young male criminals, situated
overlooking the canal and Raven's Gate. A woman is brutally killed on
the bank opposite the Hostel on a night when Nick is on duty. Nick
believes his lads had nothing to do with it, though consequently Nick
is suspended for issuing too many late passes at once. Then another
woman is killed and Nick becomes drawn into discovering the culprit.
He works with DCI Findlay and DS Deacon as the murder toll rises.
Together with help from his old friends Alan and Hugo, Nick's
research uncovers a long series of similar murders in the same area,
stretching back through the centuries. "Powderfinger" as
the killer is dubbed, appears to be some kind of ancient mellifluous,
malevolent, murderous being that attacks anyone it considers to be
disturbing its peace and quiet. Eventually, as the story climaxes,
Findlay, Deacon, Nick and Alan set a trap to lure "Powderfinger"
to his doom and rid the area of this beast once and for all. Yet,
traps can swing both ways.
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Chapter 15
“Curious,” he commented as a few of the
unseen birds high above, started to get agitated again. ‘Surely, something has
found its way into this place, before me?’ Alex began walking towards the
regular sound of the dripping water, insistently calling to him, from somewhere
within the darker shadows.
“O.K, let’s see what’s making that
annoying sound,” he said out loud as he approached the suspected water tank.
His attention, was then sharply caught by another noise, that seemed to be
coming from somewhere within the darkness beyond the glistening pool, with its
sound of rhythmic drops of liquid falling from above. This new tone, was akin
to something scraping on a hard surface. Alex stood rigid, all his senses on
alert, he got the distinct impression he was no longer alone in the shattered
darkness, his breathing became shallow and quiet but his heart was pounding
loudly, the hair on the back of his neck stood erect. Alex went into fight
mode,
“Hello, who’s there. Show yourself,” he
demanded of the darkness, but there was no response. “It’s no use hiding, I’m
sure that we can work this out,” he heard himself imploring but again his plea
got no reaction. He was beginning to get annoyed with this farce and reaching
into his top pocket, Alex, pulled out his badge and held it up, in the beam
that was being thrown by one of one of the shards of splintered light,
emanating from above.
“I’m a Police officer,” he said with the
most authority that he could muster, under the circumstances, “And I demand
that you show yourself.” Again, nothing moved to come forward. Alex, was
starting to question himself, had he imagined the scraping noise, or was it
real? ‘Probably just a rat or something’ his rational mind asserted. He stood
motionless for a few moments, just to be sure his supposition was correct and
the noise had simply been the everyday sounds of yet unseen and trackless
in-house wildlife. Satisfied, he again checked behind him just to be sure that,
‘The Scraper,’ was not sneaking out through the swinging door.
Findlay had barely turned his head when
there was a sudden huge splash, as if some giant piece of masonry had fallen
from a great height into the pool behind him. Taken by surprise, Alex spun
round to see what had created the loud noise. He stared into the fetid pool but
to his alarm there was nothing, no masonry, not even ripples disturbing its
oily, glistening surface. As he did so,
the door slammed shut with a deafening thud and the invisible birds started to
shriek piercingly again. Alex, felt the fear once more welling up in his soul,
eyes wide, the hair on the back of his neck stood up, his breathing became as
rapid as his pulse, sweat trickled down his neck and his mind screamed ‘Get
out, get out NOW!’
The cacophony, from the unseen flock
grew louder and louder, in his ears and he was beginning to feel a twinge of
confusion in his mind. Quickly, he turned and looked for the door that he had
come in through but it was gone, lost in the darkness. The only remaining light
was being provided by the needles of scant illumination piercing the shadowy
gloom from high above. The panicked flapping of the bird’s wings created a
strobe effect and then the scraping sounds returned, louder and closer than
before.
‘GET OUT!’ screamed in his head as he
became more disorientated. Desperately searching for his route out he had a
stroke of luck, one of the shards from on high, picked out a couple of his
footprints on the floor. Seeing this, his survival instincts clicked in and he
quickly lurched forward to follow his steps back towards the exit. At first,
there was no sign of any way out, so Alex, threw his head back, as if he was
looking to the heavens for some sort of divine guidance.
That’s when he saw them, the mass of
dark birds, clinging to the pylons that supported the broken roof of the
building. Their eyes glinted menacingly as they stared at him down below, in
the dark.
“Shit,” he said, more out of shock at
the number of birds, than out of fear, ‘Look at them all. There must be
hundreds of the fucker’s up there’ and, trying not to panic, he redoubled his
effort to locate the way out. He dashed across the darkened floor, in the
direction of the footprints and almost ran straight into the door. He saw it at
the last moment and stopping himself just in time, tried to push the entrance
open, but it would not give. He felt the panic rising, he was trapped in here
with all those birds and whatever was making that scraping noise and had thrown
that huge slab into that fetid pool. He felt the sweat beads, trickling down
his neck, as he groped for the fastening mechanism and his breath was becoming
ragged. His mind again screamed continuously now, ‘GET OUT! GET OUT! GET
OUT!.....’
His fingers clawed and scraped on the
rusting metal tearing his nails and flesh as he grabbed for the latch,
frantically trying to get out of this all-encompassing, claustrophobic
darkness. The screaming of the large black birds grew louder and louder, the
scraping sound was almost upon him, his heart pounded and his temples throbbed.
The sweat was running freely down his face, trickling into his eyes obscuring
his vision. As his anxiety grew unbearable he felt something like a sliding
latch and grabbing it, yanked it back and at last, the heavy metal door
silently swung open again, with ease. Alex, almost leapt through the opening
and took several large loping strides out into the light, to get away from the
perceived dread inside.
Once outside in the open air, he quickly
glanced over his shoulder, was he being pursued? Seeing nothing, he stopped and
turned to face the door swinging on its hinges. Slowly, his feelings of dread
began to fade, along with the deafening cries of the birds and he started to
relax a little in the gentle warmth of the pale, Autumn sunshine. He stood
staring at the door for several minutes, reluctant to turn his back on it. Gradually his breathing calmed and the
throbbing in his temples eased, he took a handkerchief from his pocket and
wiped the sweat from his face and the blood from his hands. Having regained his
composure and assured himself nothing was going to jump him from behind,
Findlay walked purposefully away from the old building, back through the works
and over the bridge. Then, he couldn’t resist one final glance over his
shoulder, at the decaying looming edifice, that was The Ravens Gate.
Wyndwrayth
Nick
Swann Investigates Book 2
This
is the second horror novel in the Nick Swann series. This scary story
finds Nick now living in an old stone farmhouse on the lonely and
mysterious shores of Llyn Isaf, in Wales. He becomes intrigued by its
mist-covered lake island, Ynys Y Niwl and its dark, ancient and long
deserted mansion, Wyndwrayth.
Its
moldering edifice holds many secrets and treasures, some of which
draw Nick and his old friend Alan, into dangerous realms. Death
stalks the island and as the dangerous spectral figures of The Millar
of Souls, The Paladin and Gideon reveal themselves, it becomes
increasingly difficult to discern between reality and dreams.
As
the death toll rises, Nick finds himself, along with his new partner,
Wendy and her Wolf, Mir embroiled in a struggle not just to maintain
sanity but to stay alive.
During this last summer, he’d spent
a great deal of time, fishing from this boat, holding one sided conversations
with ‘her’ and as a bonus, he’d also eaten an awful lot of Trout for his
evening meals. However, today the rods had been left at home and the maps had
come out.
“Different kind of thing today,” he informed her, as he climbed aboard and put
his rucksack down in a secure place, still easily accessible from the
‘Captain’s Chair.’ Nick had set his own rules, ‘for conducting oneself on the
water’ and as pretentious as that was, the humour that it engendered was worth
it. There were only three boats that plied the lake and they were rarely on the
water together but that made no difference.
“Standards have to be maintained,” he said loudly, as Venezuela sedately made
her way out of the boathouse at 5 miles per hour, with him standing stiffly,
like some kind of crazy figurehead, jokingly giving the stiff right armed Nazi
salute.
Ahead lay Fog Island and for some unknown reason, his heart was beating a
little bit faster as the mist shrouded island drew ever closer. He had to
circle the island carefully twice before he found a spot to tie up on. There
was nowhere remotely possible except on it’s far side, facing the sheer cliffs
rising from the lake. Even the spot he’d found meant he’d have to leap for
it……. Giving himself the customary one wet foot:
“Shit!”
When he was sure that everything was secured, he grabbed the rucksack, with its
map and provisions, slung it across his shoulders and headed in shore. At the
tree line Nick turned and cast a look back across the lake towards the dark,
forbidding escarpment before setting off into:
“The dark interior of Fog Island,”
for which he employed a really rough Glaswegian accent, then laughed. Here he
was, a mere eight hundred yards across the watery surface from his boathouse
but at this moment, it could have been measured in years. A shudder of childish
excitement rippled through his body. He recalled the dull glow of light he’d
imagined he saw last night, coming from a source deep inside this green and
tangled domain.
“Well, it’s hardly darkest Africa but it is equally deserted, or so I’m led to
believe.” The Glaswegian had spoken again and it was now, that Nick realised he
would be with him on the island, all day.
He’d barely taken half a dozen steps, when he ran up against the first major
problem. Fallen trees and thick vines, seemingly blocked his way at every turn.
He quickly realised that he was going to have to walk along the narrow
shoreline of pebbles, which dropped steeply away into the lakes depths, until
he could find a track that led inland.
“Inland, to what?” He cried out loud, as it seemed to him there was no break in
the unforgiving foliage. Fog Island was quite large, as far as lake islands
went, measuring roughly eight hundred yards in length, by two hundred and
fifty, in width. Nick reckoned that he must have already covered at least half
of its length by now, without seeing anything which promised him an easier path
into the centre. He was about to give up and head back to Venezuela, when he
spied a narrow gap in the tangle of tree limbs and creeping vines.
“Hmm,” he muttered. “Don’t get your hopes up, Nicolas, it’s probably just an
animal track,” he said and then, suddenly stopped when he realised it was too
wide for a rodent or bird. The island was supposed to be uninhabited and if
that was so, how did the whatever it was that made the track, get here? He
looked back along the trail, that he'd just taken, to the shoreline and from
there, out across the expanse of water beyond. From shore to shore, there was a
great deal of rather deep and very cold water, too much for any local animal to
traverse, to reach the Island without a boat and there seemed nothing to
sustain them anyway.
'Indigenous?' Mused Nick but dismissed that proposition, it was hardly the
Galapagos. “Aye well, perhaps it’s a long-lost family of Velociraptors, or a
wee Welsh Nessie,” he depreciatingly whispered in the rather pitiful Scottish
accent. “Rats, plural!” he expounded as if a light had suddenly been turned on.
“Of course, now why didn’t I think of that earlier?” Nick stated confidently,
as if such a revelation was somehow novel. “Rats,” he said again, as he looked
down at the trackway and attempted to estimate their size and number, by
gauging the width of the path he was following. “They’re big buggers too,” he
muttered, as he walked slowly onwards, his eyes darting from side to side
warily….. “and there must be a lot of them….”
As he moved deeper into the hinterland, following this ‘Rat-way,’ Nick noticed
that the air grew ever warmer and the humidity was rapidly rising. Underfoot,
the ground became increasingly boggy and a thick layer of moss now replaced the
slippery, pebbled landscape of the shoreline. There was a strong smell of
mulchified and rotting vegetation in the dead air. Nick was starting to
question the wisdom of coming here at all. ‘Maybe I should have told somebody I
was going to come here today,’ he considered. ‘It might, after all, have been
the wisest choice,’ he cautioned himself as he stepped into what could only be
described as the prefect, Fairy Glen.
The red and white caps of Fly Agaric mushrooms, grew abundantly amid the bows
of a surrounding copse of Silver Birch trees and in the short grass beside
them, what appeared to be thousands of Psilocybe Semilanceata, better known as
the liberty cap ‘shroons' he’d consumed in great numbers, when he was a younger
man.
“Look at them all,” he gasped and he bent down to pick a few, for old times'
sake. In his murky past, the discovery of this number of ‘magics,’ as they were
parochially known, meant a couple of V.H.S Videos and a night or two of belly
laughs. ‘They were indeed great days,’ Nick thought absentmindedly and smiled.
He didn’t know it at the time but he had inadvertently stumbled onto, what was
the old croquet lawn of the once great house and as he looked up and over to
the right, there stood the ivy-covered ruins, of ‘Y Wake Gwynt.’
“Wow! So, you really do exist…,” he smiled to himself.
Only a limited amount of dappled sunlight made it through the overlapping
branches of the trees, crowding in on the observer, creating an intense feeling
of claustrophobia. Nick sat himself down on the nearest piece of flattish land
and after rummaging around in his ‘sack, withdrew his trusty old Ordinance
Survey Map and laid it out on the mossy grass before him. According to the map
and judging everything by the rule of thumb, he reckoned he was almost in the
very heart of the island. Nick stopped and looked all around, for any sign of
another living soul but nothing moved in the silent space. All around the old
lawn was a thicket of knotted ivy and interlocking tree branches, which created
the illusion of helpless imprisonment. It was almost as if the gardens, were
still being tended by a ramshackle gardener, who had some unspoken ambition,
which would be revealed only by the passage of time.
Strangely, as he’d approached the central area, a slight and somewhat sporadic
breeze could be detected, drifting in from a South-Westerly direction. Since,
this was a more comfortable area of the island, he decided to take his lunch
here on this long-lost croquet lawn, before pressing on with his exploration.
Taking his time, he ate his egg sandwiches, some biscuits and drank his coffee
whilst smoking one of his pre-rolled joints. There was still more than enough
time to take a closer look at the ageing mansion, glimpsed beyond ‘the green
wall’ that lay between him and the dishevelled stonework, of ‘Y Wake Gwynt.’
Finished, he moved to secure the weighty rucksack into its position on his back
and shrugged, to locate the straps that were trying to bite into his shoulders.
Then, Nick stopped his struggling as he realised that since he was the only
living creature on this island, there was no need to carry it. ‘Unless you
account for the apparently massive Rats,’ he thought and just to be sure,
secured the sack with the rest of its provisions, high up in a nearby Oak tree.
“Figure that one out, sucker’s.” He said with a self-satisfied sense of
superiority, even though he hadn’t seen one of these imagined adversaries all
morning. Confident his supplies were secured, Nick took his first step towards
‘Y Wake Gwynt.’ Eagerly, he sought any place to gain access to its inner
sanctum.
Keller
Yeats is a writer with a love of history and music. He has written
several published articles about rock music and several unpublished
short stories. He drew upon his years of experience working as a
Probation Warden, for his first published novel, "Powderfinger."
A horror story with a supernatural twist. "Wyndwrayth" is
his second novel in this Nick Swann researches and investigates
series, with more to come. In addition, he is a published graphic
artist and a qualified, though no longer practicing, jewellery maker
and designer. He now lives together with his wife, a Siberian Husky,
a Welsh Collie and three cats, in a cottage by the sea in Anglesey.
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