The Samhain Stone

Jumping down from the plinth he set off at a brisk pace and the group followed on behind. Rose resisted the temptation to try and catch up with him. it would not do to appear too interested, even though the truth was she was here to see more of him rather than to hear about headless horsemen and deranged monks. He could come to her if he had a mind to. In the meantime she fell into conversation with a middle aged couple who, she found out, were celebrating their wedding anniversary. Rose politely listened to their stories about their original honeymoon in Gallowgreen and tried not to be too distracted when she spotted, out of the corner of her eye, the young blonde woman had sped up to walk alongside Nat, listening attentively.

Despite the charisma Nat brought to the proceedings many of the individual ghost stories turned out pretty much as expected. They all gathered outside an old converted mill to hear the tragic story of Agnes Downey, a young woman who been dragged into a weaving machine by her long blonde hair. Nat had not spared anyone the gory details and had given a vivid description of how the ghost had been spotted by numerous witnesses down through the years: her head bald and bloody as she held out a bloody bundle in her hands: Her pretty blond hair, scalp still very much attached for people to see. This would have all been suitably horrific but the effect was slightly ruined by the fact that the "dark satanic" mill in question had clearly been converted into student flats.

Then they were led to an empty carpark in front of the town's main theatre. Nat then told the tale of a vengeful actor who, having literally died on stage, was said to have exacted his revenge from beyond the grave by tormenting several of the critics who had rubbished his performances onstage. Rose had enjoyed the story even though she was pretty sure that Nat had lifted most, if not all, of the story elements from an old Vincent Price film she had seen as a child.

So far, nothing she had heard had been even remotely credible or real but she wasn't complaining. He was an entertaining storyteller as well as being easy on the eye. His performance ranged from corny jokes, to dead-pan tongue in cheek seriousness. She was getting to see parts of the town she would have otherwise missed and there was something about the tangle of narrow alleyways which added to the overall atmosphere of mild spookiness. In many ways the town was quite bewildering in it's warren of dark, cobbled streets and alleys. Without a guide, she could easily imagine becoming disoriented and lost.

She had been curious about the absence of children going door to door for sweets but, occasionally, she would catch glimpses of costumed figures just passing round a corner out of sight, or too far ahead for her to make out details. Overall she often had the impression that she and her fellow ghost hunters had the town pretty much to themselves.

Their next stop was in the cellar of a local chain pub. On the surface this had seemed as far away from creepy, fog-wreathed cemeteries as it was possible to get, all gleaming chrome stools and mirrored walls. After shouting a cheerful hello to the barman Nat revealed the, not unwelcome news, that they were all entitled to a free drink at the bar. This was certainly a pleasant surprise and Rose was soon taking grateful sips from the pint of lager the barmaid had handed her. She really was feeling very warm and the ice-cold drink sent a delicious chill down through her body.. They were all then directed towards a nondescript doorway to the side of the bar revealing stone steps curving downwards out of sight. Now this was more like it, thought Rose, as she made her way down, taking each step carefully so as not to spill her drink.

They filed through an archway at the foot of the stairs into a long, narrow room with low, arched ceilings and rough stone walls. It had the look and feel of an old wine cellar. Nat stood at the far end of the room and gestured for them all to sit on one of the long, low benches that ran down both sides.

"OK," Nat began, while they were all finding spaces to sit down. "Welcome to the penultimate stop on our little tour, one which has a very definite connection to our main event."

Rose lowered herself onto the bench. Placing her handbag on the floor she held the pint glass, wet with condensation in her lap. Slowly she crossed her legs, and noticed with a sharp thrill that the movement had attracted Nat's attention. Had it been her imagination or had he briefly stumbled over his words? She noticed that her dress had slithered upwards, revealing a glimpse of her sleek thigh. She took a moment to correct her hemline, pulling it down back over her knee, but she took her time doing it. She watched as his eyes followed her actions. Over to the side she could sense the disapproval of the young woman who had been speaking to Nat previously. Rose allowed herself a moment of smug pleasure. She would never have classed herself as shy or retiring when it came to enjoying the attentions of men but something about tonight was having a powerful effect on her, making her feel wanton in a way she struggled to remember feeling before. It was quite possible she was going to make a bit of a fool of herself tonight but, for now, she was enjoying the experience. The idea of returning alone to her hotel room felt like it would be a massively disappointing end to the evening.

She maintained eye contact with Nat, smiling slightly as she took a slow sip from her drink. They held each other's gaze for what seemed like a long moment. Nat was the first one to blink and look away. He took a deep breath and continued:

"You are all sat in what used to be the cellar of The Halfway House tavern. Now, as you have probably guessed from the wonderfully modern decor upstairs, times have moved on. However, if you had been here during the mid 1800's you would have experienced something a little different from the vodka jellies and overpriced fruit beer you get treated to these days. In 1845, if you were a traveller arriving in Gallowgreen by coach this would have been your first stop and..." there then followed a clear and obvious pause for ominous effect, "for may it would be their last.

"For, you see, back in those days The Halfway House was owned by everyone's favourite local psychopath and black magician, Edgar Winter. One of these days I am going to get one of those apps for my phone to make the sound of thunder whenever I mention his name but, in the meantime, you will just have to use your imagination when I tell you what a sick, twisted madman he was. Popular legend has it that he was so cruel that he thought that neither the laws of man or God applied to him. And a man whose heart was so irredeemably dark that he thought nothing of skimping on a tip whenever he went on a ghost tour. That's a hint by the way.

"You see, Winter kept himself living in style through theft, smuggling and murder. Any traveller stopping for a night at this inn ran the risk of being Winter's special guest. They would be lured down here, murdered in cold blood and their belongings stripped from their bodies. He was a powerful man, from a powerful family and the law couldn't, or at least wouldn't, touch him. His reign of terror continued for nearly five years until, on the 31st October 1851, that's right ladies and gentlemen, Halloween, the locals grew tired of his butchery and descended on the Halfway House in full on rampaging peasant mode complete with pitchforks and torches. Torches which they then used to burn down the tavern with Winter screaming inside it. It is said that, when the ashes cooled and they were able to make there way down to this very cellar, they found, buried in the walls at your back, and under the floorboards at your feet, the bodies of as many as 37 men, women and children. Helpless victim's all to Winter's greed and lust."

Nat told the story straight, with no winks or asides. Despite her scepticism Rose felt a chill trickle icily down the her spine and, subconsciously, she leant forward slightly so as to put some distance between her back and the cold stone wall behind her. Nat let the silence hang heavy in the air. I bet he enjoys this moment, thought Rose ruefully.

"But," Nat continued, "what those locals didn't know until they searched this cellar, was that it contained more secrets than the corpses of unfortunate pilgrims. Jenny, if I could ask you to stand up for a moment, I will show you what else those locals discovered all those years ago." This last was addressed to the same young woman that had been giving Rose the evil eye only moments before. Jenny rose uncertainly as Nat approached. Bending down, he lifted out a section of the bench, placing it down on the floor behind him.

"Now Jenny, if I could just use you for a moment, do you see that dark stone about two feet from the floor? I want you to press it." Blushing slightly, much to the irritation of Rose, the young woman stepped forward, bent down and placed her hand on a small black rock which was set in the wall. There was a dull click and a narrow rectangle of wall swung away as though on a hinge. There were audible gasps of surprise from around the room, much to the delight of Nat, who was beaming triumphantly: "Open Sesame!" he cried.

"Prior to that fateful night, what those locals did not know, because they had never stopped to ask, was how Winter was smuggling his stolen goods in and out without arousing suspicion. You see, Winter, as well as being a sadistic bastard of the highest and finest order, was also a bit of a digger. What you see here is a secret tunnel stretching over 300 yards from here to the dining room of the Winter House itself. He had quite a project going. Stolen goods went down the tunnel; smuggled alcohol came the other way, all under the feet of the authorities." With a dramatic flourish Nat pulled a torch from the pocket of his leather jacket. "Anyone up for a little tunnelling?"

When this idea was not met with much enthusiasm his grin broadened: "And there was me thinking you should all be hardened ghost hunters by now. Don't worry, the owners installed electric lights about 30 years ago. I just need the torch so I can find the light switch." He stepped into the dark doorway and, after a few seconds, a dull light flickered on.

Nat emerged, pocketed his torch and, with a dramatic gesture, indicated the passageway. "OK, whose first?" Again, there was a ripple of nervous laughter before the group realized he was serious. Everyone hesitated, waiting for someone else to speak up first. Rose experienced a moment of uncertainty, not something she felt often. It was this surprise, rather than any desire to please Nat, that made her step forward.

Nat smiled at her decision: "And it's the brave Rose whose first to put her head in the lion's mouth. Don't worry, I will be with you every step of the way. And by "with you" I of course I I will be cowering safely behind you. This is the bit that always freaks me out." She couldn't resist a quick wink to him as she stepped past him into the open doorway. Her curiosity was so heightened that she never stopped to think how it was he knew her name.

As she stepped into the passageway she sensed the rest of the group gathering behind her, with Nat at the head. The passageway was really more of a tunnel; sparsely lit by a succession of bare electric bulbs that stretched in a line from the ceiling down to where the tunnel curved out of sight. The walls were of worn brickwork and the floor appeared to consist of nothing but soft, loose earth. This was confirmed as Rose took her first tentative step only for her foot to sink slightly into the ground as she put her weight upon it. She was glad of her decision not to go with high heels tonight. The tunnel had a strong odour of damp earth and the air itself seemed old and stale. She resisted the temptation to look back at Nat for reassurance, and began to make her way forward. As she walked her imagination began to work, offering up particularly nasty ways this whole situation could pan out. She imagined hands reaching out from the earth below to clutch at her feet. She pictured the dim lightbulbs overhead suddenly exploding in a shower of sparks, plunging them all into darkness. She imagined turning around only to see the door behind her swinging shut to leave her trapped and alone. It was this last image that brought a shiver.

The tunnel was, at least, wide enough for two people to walk side by side and, despite herself, she was relieved when she felt Nat's presence at her elbow.

"So, what do you think so far?" he whispered to her. If anything his deep voice was even more delicious when he was trying to be quiet, the effect was far more intimate. "Am I going to be out of pocket at the end of the day?"

"Well," she replied, "everything up until the pub was pretty much horsehit. Entertaining horsehit but still. But, I do have to say that the story about the cellar was pretty good. You nearly got me there."

"Only nearly got you?" She leaned in closer to hear him, their arms touched. "I really am going to have to up my game for the last bit"

Feeling emboldened Rose leaned in further to whisper into his ear: "I'm afraid you will. I should have told you at the beggining that I'm not easily got."

Nat turned his face towards her, their faces very close to each other as they continued to walk, "Nothing worth getting ever is," he whispered back, holding her gaze. "That's what my dad always used to say."

She was enjoying the flirting, which was clearly what was going on now. She watched him as they had talked and she saw how the easy, cheeky smile had, for a moment, dropped from his expression to be replaced by something more serious and thoughtful. No, she corrected herself, more than just serious, he had looked downright hungry when he looked at her. She had felt the impact of that hunger between her legs and she had turned her face forward, momentarily lost for words. She tried to come up with a witty retort, to prologue the flirtatious banter, but she found that the words wouldn't come. She wished very much that they were alone, maybe then she wouldn't have minded so much if the lights were to go out.

They rounded the bend at the end of the tunnel and, far in the distance, she could see a black rectangle, a door.

"We're almost there." he whispered, his voice little more than a breath of wind. For a moment she thought she had misheard him. Had he said "there" or "home"?

The door opened with a suitably ominous slow creak and they all filed into a large, dimly lit room. The only illumination came from a chandelier that appeared to be missing most of it's bulbs. The room was bare apart from a solid, uneven mass standing in the dead centre of the floor. This, Rose assumed, was the infamous Samhain Stone, and she saw enough to be decidedly unimpressed. She had genuinely expected more of a grand, dramatic climax that a low grey stone wall. It was a low table of grey rock with a rough, uneven surface. It wouldn't have looked out of place on a builder's yard. Older than Roman times my arse, she thought as she joined the group in positioning themselves against the walls.

She noticed that the room was not completely bare: a painting hung on the wall directly opposite the door they had entered. Rose came to a stop just in front of it and she saw that it was a worn and faded portrait of s young man dressed in a suit that looked decidedly old fashioned, Victorian even. From what she could see in the dim light the man looked thoroughly miserable and a small brass plaque underneath read: "Edgar Winter".

Rose was startled when Nat clapped his hands once, bringing the group's attention back to him. The sound of it echoed around the room. She wasn't the only person to get a fright and very soon the familiar ripple of laughter could be heard.

"So now we come to the main event. First question: could anyone remind us what day it is today?"

"Halloween." The answer came back immediately. Nat point triumphantly at the man who had answered.

"Exactly! Tonight is Halloween, or All Hallows' Eve or, if you want to be traditional about it, the festival of Samhain. Now you may think that Halloween is just an excuse to dress 7 year old's up as Freddy Kruger or dose them up with sweets and cheap chocolate, but for those that value their history it will always be known as the festival of the dead." The temperature in the room did seem to be going down and Rose suppressed a shudder. She would not have put it past Nat to have messed with the air conditioning, just to get the right effect. He continued to talk, his voice deadly serious, you could almost think he believed this rubbish, thought Rose.

"It was the the time when people would prepare themselves for the long dark nights ahead. Their cattle would be brought down from the hills to be slaughtered in preparation for winter. Throughout Britain, throughout Europe, bonfires were lit to keep the night at bay."

Nat raised his arms and, for a moment, Rose thought he was pointing directly at her. When she realized he was merely pointing at the portrait behind her the sense of disappointment was a real as it was deeply irritating. She really did need to get a grip on herself.

"Our resident Loony-Tunes back there believed in Samhain even more than he believed in theft, murder and the pleasures of the flesh which, if some of the more racy rumours are to be believed, really is saying something. Only, Winter did not subscribe to any particular faith or religion. He thought they were imperfect interpretations of a greater truth only he could see. He argued that Halloween was far older than anyone imagined: older even than the pagans. He believed that the festival of Samhain has been celebrated in these lands long before there was humans to name it.

It has long been understood that Samhain night is a time when the gap between our world and the underworld is at it's narrowest; a time when beings can push through into our existence from the beyond"

"Ghosts." Somebody whispered from along the wall to Rose's left. If Nat was irritated at being interrupted he didn't show it, but he did hold up his hand:

"Not exactly," he said, "Winter believed that all of the monsters and ghouls you read about and watch on television, all of the vampires, werewolves and zombies, were nothing but diluted shadows of what truly lay behind the veil, trying to push through. As you may have gathered, Winter never did things by half measures. He wanted to see it all, experience it all. Nothing else would do.

"Which, ladies and gentlemen, brings me to the reason we are all gathered here on this mild Samhain night." He flicked a switch on the wall and a beam of light shone down on the stone. If anything, Rose thought, the more you see of it the less impressive it looks. This whole thing was turning into one huge anticlimax. Nat continued, "What you see before you is not only the reason we are all here tonight but also the reason why the house we are standing in exists. For centuries this wall was identified as part of a roman building, a temple perhaps. Winter thought otherwise. He claimed, not that anyone listened, that his research had shown the stone to be far older than anyone expected." Nat was on full circus barker mode, his strong voice building up to a crescendo. "He came to the conclusion that this stone was nothing less than a protrusion from the other world into ours, like the tip of a vast mountain poking through the surface of the ocean. He bought (or stole if you believe the rumours) the rights to the land where the stone lay and build this entire house around it. Examining the stone became his one true passion. It is said that he would go weeks without sleep interpreting it's meaning, researching it's powers. Legend has it that he enacted rites all through the year, but particularly on Halloween, seeking to communicate with those who lay beyond. He would sacrifice animals to them, perform rituals, engage in orgies, anything to awaken the power he believed lay slumbering within the rock. And that wasn't the worst of it ladies and gentleman. Do you remember the bodies dug up in the cellar of The Halfway House? I'm afraid many people believe that some, if not all, of those unhappy people, breathed their last whilst bound to this very stone; sacrificed to Gods older than humanity."