Haunting in Hartley Read online

  Haunting in Hartley

  Janice Tremayne

  Copyright © 2020 Janice Tremayne

  www.janicetremayne.com

  [email protected]

  First published in Australia in 2020

  Cover illustration and design by Momir Borocki (www.99designs.com.au)

  Pro/99designs

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  Edited by Kristin Campbell, C&D Editing—United States

  https://cdediting.weebly.com/

  Published by Millport Press

  Printed and bound by Kindle Direct Publishing—KDP

  Digital ISBN: 978-0-646-812014

  Paperback ISBN: 978-0-646-81823-8

  DEDICATION

  I dedicate this book to my partner for their incredible patience—to be a good writer; you need time to yourself to achieve the literary objective. Thank you so much.

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgments

  i

  1

  The Evil Within

  1

  2

  Little Charlie

  Pg 24

  3

  Paranormal Jack

  Pg 54

  4

  Grimaldi’s Ghost

  Pg 83

  5

  Etromque

  Pg 110

  6

  The Basement

  Pg 145

  7

  The Candidature

  Pg 170

  8

  The Handmaiden

  Pg 197

  9

  The Offering

  Pg 216

  10

  The Cobalt Chest

  Pg 236

  11

  The Vision

  Pg 258

  12

  Tracker Joe

  Pg 271

  13

  The Standoff

  Pg 283

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing a novel about ghosts, the supernatural and paranormal is one of the most significant projects I have ever committed to completing. It was different from the genre I had written before.

  I want to acknowledge my partner, for their patience and tolerance for the many hours I spent in coffee shops writing my first draft.

  I want to thank my book-cover designer, Momir Borocki, for designing a stunning visual cover. A book cannot reach its potential without a great editor, and I am grateful to Kristin Campbell for polishing up my work.

  Although I am the author of this book, I am not a singular entity. I recognize that it was the kindness of the people around me that motivated me to complete it.

  .

  1 the evil Within

  Hartley 1936

  Father Grimaldi was sent to the basement to fetch an antique cross made of eighteenth-century mahogany. It was an ornate and intricate design that was carved by a skilled artisan of the time. Nobody explained to him why they suddenly needed this cross—it had been locked away for almost a decade, out of sight and out of mind—nor did he question the purpose of it being resurrected. But it did cross his mind. He did not envisage any special religious ceremony upon which it might serve a purpose. Easter had just passed, so now was the quiet season for religious events on the calendar.

  A deacon of the Catholic Church for over a decade, Father Grimaldi was never too far away from controversy—sent to the backwaters of the

  Australian bush for ruffling the feathers of his superiors. They ran out of patience with him in Europe, as his superior intellect regularly got him into conflict with the conservative bishops. He was not savvy with his diplomacy, and they had had enough of his opinionated points of view. He had been assigned to a controversial Catholic orphanage for young, deprived souls in the town of Hartley, New South Wales. And it was not any type of orphanage. This building of Georgian architecture also had its imbroglio and decadence to match—a shady past that had drawn the attention of the Church in Rome.

  The poor, young children that this orphanage was empowered to secure their upbringing were the troubled youth of society, all tumbled into one great Catholic institution. Misfits, offenders, and those with learning difficulties plagued this unfortunate home for the deprived. But someone had to look after them, and so it was the Catholic Church, through God, underwritten with their care.

  Saint Bernard’s Church and the presbytery, built in the 1850s, was the home of the priests responsible for carrying on the word of God in this rural outpost that was one hundred and forty-eight miles north of Sydney. It was not a desired place of preference for a career priest, however. Although Father Grimaldi was not happy with his posting, he had to endure it for the next year. The bishops thought it would serve as a time of reflection, for his personality and behaviors, and then he could return to Europe, a different man.

  He admired the Georgian architecture of Saint Bernard’s church and the French influence. He liked the distinctive French-style as reminiscent of his time in Europe, traveling across many French provincial towns before becoming a priest. Strangely, although he was far away from Europe, the style of Saint Bernard’s made him feel at home; it provided for the respite he needed.

  Although it was 1936 and the church was showing signs of ageing, the solid, colonial, pale sandstone structure had stood the test of time. It had been built with a distinctive presence, like most Catholic Churches—not necessarily for practicality but to stand the test of time in the Glory of God. It had been constructed in God’s name by the local stonemason, Alexander Binning, possibly one of the best stonemasons in the country at the time.

  The church was named after Saint Bernard of Clairvaux, a monk and doctor of the Catholic Church. Saint Bernard had been a missionary and had opened new frontiers for the Catholic Church through his preaching of the faith in remote communities. Pope Alexander III had canonized him in Rome on 1174 AD. His saint name aptly was chosen for the town of Hartley, an outpost for a new society in a new land—Australia.

  Father Grimaldi was different than the long line of Irish priests who had successively occupied the presbytery since the church was officially built in 1836. The Irish priests sent to assist local Irish convicts and convert them to God’s ways. To do away with their criminal pasts and forge a new living, in a new world, far away from their life of decadence. H was regarded as an outsider by the other priests, and there was skepticism whether he would conform with their ways. Too outspoken and intolerant in his way of thinking. What they didn’t want was an overeducated man with a degree in psychology to influence their pitiful and dreary daily existence.

  With his brass skeleton key in his right hand and a gas lamp in the other, he waddled into the dark basement then descended the croaky, timber stairs. They squeaked and felt unstable beneath his feet, forcing him to hold on tight to the ornate metal railing. This deluded underground basement had not seen visitors for a decade.

  The foolishness of Father O’Hara to send him to a place unfrequented like the Siberian desert, to find a piece of the holy sacrament, was convoluted. It had more to do with Father O’Hara reliving the past and romancing his spirituality than anything else. But it also had an underlying mischievousness and fishy purpose.

  Father Grimaldi reached the end of the pathway to a perplexing circumstance—two identically carved wooden doors on either side. They appeared to be entrances to separate rooms, and he had to decide which one to take. No one explained to Father Grimaldi that there would be two doors and, more importantly, which one the skeleton key would open. Was it a trick, a test or forgetfulness on behalf of Father O’Hara?

  These were not
your typical doors. Built solidly with an arch-style design and carved features, they were a product of the times when doors had been designed to keep people out and bound by strength and intricate design. It did not matter if the doors were the main entrance of a marvelous house or the darkest chamber, they still needed to look good. They were bourgeois and fanciful, out of place for a room beneath a house. These doors did not belong in this dreary place.

  He juggled his cape to give himself enough mobility to place the skeleton key into the mortice lock. He had chosen the left-sided door out of superstition, and nothing else. Better to start left to right was his omen and only rationale. It was like a left ear burning or a left hand palm holding bad fortune and detailed in the lines by a palm reader.

  He twisted the lock several times, turning the brass key until he finally heard the click of metal upon metal. The door opened ajar sufficiently for him to create enough room to slide through. The rusting hinges showed signs of their age and screeched with a high piercing sound that penetrated the ear drums to a level of discomfort. Father Grimaldi swallowed, ground his solitary teeth to relieve the pain from the noise.

  He was inside the first room, but was it the right place?

  A ravenous cellar with dark bluestone bricks hastily joined, as though the bricklayers Had understood that this room was never going to be a showpiece. They had just done the job as quickly as they could then had gotten the hell out of there. The air carried a stench of dead mice, like caustic acid eating through your nostrils venomously.

  He placed a handkerchief over his face and tied it to the back of his head to filter the smells and offer relief from the putrid, stale air. Father Grimaldi then lifted his lamp to get a better view and turned across the room, looking for the ornate cross, but the dense moisture in the air stifled his visibility. To his right, the mellow lamplight reflected off a wine rack with around fifty bottles of red sacramental wine. These bottles, covered in dust one inch thick, contained ageing wine used in delivering the Eucharist.

  He brushed off the dirt on the wine bottle closest to him and read, Alter wine, Tawny Port-1850. Made by Monks in New South Wales.

  Although a storm was raging upstairs with howling wind and rain, it was silent in the cellar. Dissociated with the rest of the world above, this room lived in its own dimension, locked in time and fermenting its ideology of secrecy and reclusiveness. If the room was alive, this was how it was portrayed—nothingness, miserable, and empty of all memories. If a place could die, then this one was already dead. If life was not worth living, then it had succumbed already to superficial non-existence and misery. The sins of the past poisoned this room; Father Grimaldi could sense it, and it made his body tingle at the thought.

  The chilling cold air caused him to start shaking as he was not prepared with his courtier to withstand the elements. He wanted to leave and get out quickly from this wretched place.

  He took a couple of steps forward, reluctantly at first, into the room to check for the ornate cross. However, it was something else that caught his attention—a cobalt blue metal chest, about knee height. It was the type of chest used by pirates to store precious cargo. How such a chest had gotten to the cellar in the first place was a mystery. It was very uncommon to find such a piece in a rural town. Nevertheless, it looked new and well preserved, untouched by human hands for over a hundred years.

  Father Grimaldi was cold and uncomfortable, and the brazen air filled his nostrils. Yet, even though he wanted to leave, he was not done, captivated by the beauty of the cobalt blue chest. He tried to get closer and investigate, which was typical of Father Grimaldi—always meddling and sticking his nose in places where it was best left alone. He had a lack of self-protection and an impulsive disposition that continually engaged in a battle of wills to accomplish his point of view. To his behest, he was not frightened to tackle the hard questions and was relied upon by the church for assignments in challenging places where no priest wanted to go. And although the church hierarchy found him annoying, he was their best Mister Fix-It, the man who confronted the most testing problems.

  Before Father Grimaldi took another step, he heard screeching on the wall directly in front of him. He gulped while his heart started thumping harder. It had been an ominous sound, designed to grab his attention.

  He took a deep breath and held it while looking disconcertingly toward the wall. A musty haze of light captured his attention with speckles of dust forming patterns of floating particles. The incandescent light came from nowhere, as there were no windows in this room.

  He lifted his lamp above shoulder height to improve his view of the uncanny sound when, out of nowhere, an icy hand tapped him on his right shoulder then patted him in a circular motion. He stood frozen and tense as he gripped his hands into fists, his heart pacing and eyes glued directly in front of him. He shook his shoulders more than once as a tickle went up to his spine. It had a skeleton-like feel, devoid of any life or tenderness. It was the hand of a dead man, but with the metaphysical qualities to touch.

  He turned around sharply to confront the phantom, almost losing his grip on the lamp, to find nothing but darkness in front of him. Was it playing games to appease itself? To control the emotions of others weary of its presence?

  “They send a man of God to do their dirty work?” said the phantom in an old English voice. “Well, speak up man of the robe … Announce yourself!”

  Father Grimaldi turned toward the voice next to the cobalt blue chest. However, the sound filled the room like an echo chamber in a stereophonic tone.

  “Yes, it’s I … Father Grimaldi. And who may you be?”

  “I am whatever you want me to be … Sometimes, I am something, and other times, I’m nothing … a transient soul, my dear Father, caught up in a sinister game of trickery by the devil.”

  A faint image of a phantom appeared above the chest—a bearded middle-aged man with a vintage baker boy cap and a dark grey, double-breasted coat. The phantom was not steady, phasing in and out, but one thing was for sure; it was like looking through a glass window.

  “I don’t understand this game you are talking about?” said Father Grimaldi. The lamp was trembling in his right hand, and he gripped the brass skeleton key with so much zeal that it left a red imprint on the palm of his hand.

  “I am here because I have the power to see everything … before, now, and into the future. But it’s seeing the future that torments my soul the most.” The phantom looked toward Father Grimaldi and pointed at him. “You will not find an ornate cross here, my dear priest.”

  “You know why I am here?” Father Grimaldi was surprised.

  “And if you think that was just good fortune, I also know why Father O’Hara sent you here … like he did with all the other priests—to cover up his filthy tracks.”

  There was an excruciating silence. “You know of Father O’Hara?”

  “Oh, do I know him? More than you think. And if you thought the devil was my only embodiment, have a look at your flock where he lives behind the robe to cover up his dubious deeds.”

  “So, why did he send me here if there is no cross?” Father Grimaldi asked.

  “I am not your advisor, my dear priest; I only tell you the way it is. He knows you are a troubled man of the Church, and he fought against your transfer to this orphanage.” The phantom stood up, six-foot-tall, and transcended above the chest effortlessly, looking toward Father Grimaldi with vicious red eyes and saber-like teeth.

  “I seek no quarrel with you, evil spirit. I am here because I was sent to fetch an ornate cross and will leave you be.”

  The phantom rattled in anger with the howl of the wolf, blowing a force so strong that it elevated Father Grimaldi one foot off the ground and onto the dusty cobblestone floor.

  “Nobody leaves this den of dark souls unless I say so!” The phantom angered by Father Grimaldi exception.

  The door behind him slammed shut as the echoes vibrated and filled the room with a thumping clap. Everything shook
, even the floor beneath him. Father Grimaldi placed his hands over his ears to limit the noise.

  He got off the ground, heart racing and thumping, and dusted the grime off his cloak. Father Grimaldi did not want to show the phantom he was intimidated by his outburst.

  “So, what do you want? I assume you are seeking something from me if you won’t let me go freely?”

  “You are a clever man, dear priest, but don’t get too ahead of yourself. Better men have tried and failed, and now they grace the fires of hell, ripped into an everlasting dance of the inferno.” The dark spirit hesitated for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “I have a proposition for you, my dear priest.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “It is to be foretold that on the eighth day of the eight month, you will be stricken by a mysterious illness. It will be a condition that your doctors can not diagnose, because they are looking in the wrong place. On the eighth day, you will slip into a coma and die.”

  Father Grimaldi swallowed and clenched his hands as he stood up straight, looking directly at the phantom. “You are predicting my death? That is impossible.”