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Haunting of Melmerby Manor [MultiFormat]
eBook by David Robinson
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$6.95 |
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$5.91 |
eBook Category: Mystery/Crime/Humor
eBook Description: Scepter Rand is a beautiful psychic who heads up "The Spookies," a paranormal investigation team with a truckload of modern ghost-hunting equipment. Assisted by the spirit of her late butler, Fishwick, Spector and her two partners, ex-police officer Pete Brennan and wheeler-dealer Kevin Keeley, are hot on the trail of a dangerous poltergeist. Their investigation leads them to the northern moors of England and Melmerby Manor, a brooding 18th century estate overflowing with pirated DVDs. When the DVDs are swapped for a dead body, The Spookies team is fingered for the crime. Now they must race against time to prove their innocence by trying to make sense of ghostly text messages, crazed drivers determined to run them off the road and an enraged spirit seeking revenge for his untimely death. Their investigation draws them into a world of seedy mobsters, millionaire pirated movie producers, a gutter journalist looking for a story at any cost, and the grumbling spirits of an English stately home. But it's all just another night's work for The Spookies team in this supernatural mystery that will tickle your funnybone while doling out a healthy measure of goosebumps.
eBook Publisher: Virtual Tales, Published: 2008
Fictionwise Release Date: May 2008
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Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: Adobe Acrobat (PDF) [1.6 MB], eReader (PDB) [348 KB], Palm Doc (PDB) [341 KB], Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [308 KB], Microsoft Reader (LIT) [460 KB] - PocketPC 1.0+ Compatible, Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [331 KB], hiebook (KML) [793 KB], Sony Reader (LRF) [460 KB], iSilo (PDB) [283 KB], Mobipocket (PRC) [377 KB], Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [430 KB], OEBFF Format (IMP) [469 KB]
Words: 102649
Reading time: 293-410 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Adobe Acrobat (PDF) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED
ISBN: 978-1-897442-15-9
 
Fishwick looked down on the serene face of Scepter Rand and felt something close to peace. As long as the mistress was safe, he could relax. It had been a busy night. This time of year in the Northern Hemisphere, it was always busy. The usual crowd passing over from the cold and damp weather, drunks celebrating Christmas a month early, some of them stupidly driving home, the ever-increasing violence of the streets--all conspired to form a steady stream making their way over, but as long as Scepter was not one of them, it was all no concern of his. The Light was there. The Light was always there, in the background, twinkling, warm, inviting, calling to them, calling to him. Most of the Incoming understood The Light and went straight to it, on to the next world. There were times when he yearned to go into The Light, but he could not. Not while she needed him. Suddenly, he realized, a newcomer had arrived, and he, too, was ignoring the silent call of The Light. The undulating energy form was gripped by an uncontrollable rage, rushing, dashing everywhere. Fishwick had never seen such anger. "Calm down, me old sparrow," Fishwick urged. The spirit's only response was an almost incomprehensible roar. "Sounded like 'wigwam,'" Fishwick muttered to himself as the spirit flew off. Fishwick checked on Scepter again, and, satisfied that she was fine, he followed. He watched in dismay while the furious interloper wrought havoc on the little terraced house, and decided that it was time to intervene. But there was a complication. Another spirit nearby. An old man. This would need handling from both sides of the Great Divide. Fishwick returned to Scepter's room. "Modom," he called. "Modom, there is a crisis and I think you may be needed." Scepter stirred. "Fishwick? Is that you, Fishwick, or am I still dreaming?" "No, Modom. You're not dreaming. We have a situation." She sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes before checking the clock. "Fishwick, do you know what time it is?" "Time has little meaning for me, Modom, and it has no meaning for those who would harm others. You are needed, Modom." She yawned. "Oh, very well, Fishwick. Where?" "16 Rossington Terrace. I suggest you take Mr. Brennan along. He may be needed, too." Fishwick left his mistress' bedroom, allowing her to dress in private. Discretion was one of the prime requirements of a butler. It had been drummed into him when he first entered service with the Rand-Epping family. The mistress must have her privacy. Fishwick had forgotten none of his training even though he had been dead for ninety years. * * * *Police constable Dave Robb pushed his cap back and scratched his forehead as he read his notes. Like most of Ashdale's police, he knew Bilko--Steven Bilks, to give him his proper name. A small time wheeler-dealer, general thief and fence with a liking for strong beer and even stronger spirits, he had a record as long as a Philip Glass double album, and one that was just as repetitive. The trouble was, Robb knew Angie, too. A hard-faced, hard-fisted woman, more than capable of tackling burglars, and if she said there was someone hiding in number 16, moreover someone who was so violent he had persuaded Angie to run for the sanctuary of a neighbor's living room, then Robb had to take it seriously. She sat now in the Armstrongs' living room, still wearing her nightie, with a mug of tea in her shaking hands, seriously afraid. WPC Smedley sat alongside her, and young Damon sat in his mum's lap. "Right Angie," said Robb, "I'll go take a look in your place. You want to wait here?" Angie shook her head. "I need to see who it is." "I don't need you in the house while I'm trying to collar the burglar," Robb objected. "I'll wait on the pavement," Angie said, and Robb gave up trying to persuade her. He led the way out, thanking Mrs. Armstrong, and with Smedley, Angie and Damon immediately behind him, stepped into the street. Some of the neighbors had already come out, attracted, like flies, by the flickering blue beat of his car's emergency lights. Robb noticed that behind the shattered window of number 16 there were more flashes of light, but they were not simply reflections of his car. There was definitely something going on in there. Urging Angie and Smedley to wait there, he stepped cautiously into the hall, riot stick in one hand, his torch flashing nervously ahead. He felt irritated. He'd had no plans for anything major on a wet and windy November Thursday night, other than parking up near the Memorial Park and chatting up WPC Smedley, inviting her out to a football match at the weekend. He'd been sweet-talking WPC Smedley for the last two years, and he was sure he was making slow progress. When the call came through and he recognized the address, he felt certain they would find Bilko drunk and the disturbance to be nothing more than Angie venting her anger on him. Even when he saw the flashes of cool blue and angry red light coming from the house, even when he spoke to Angie, he was still convinced that Bilko would be behind it all. Making his way along the hall, stepping around Damon's bike, he tried the light switch. Nothing. With a shrug, he passed on, peered into the living room and watched in amazement as the armchair jiggled left and right, twisted and turned like a whirling dervish high on a cocktail of illegal substances. He couldn't see anyone, and no explanation readily presented itself, so he assumed that the Bilks had been fooling around with some kind of electrical apparatus. He stepped out of the room again, and a jar of marmalade flew past his head. He ducked back into the room, and other jars followed him, missing his head by millimeters. From the kitchen came the sound of papers being strewn across the floor. Robb could not see anyone. He glanced at the chair, which was now doing a passable imitation of the Twist, then made for the kitchen once more. As he reached the doorway, the oven door opened and a voice boomed from within. "BOO!" Robb turned and fled.
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