The Haunted House From Hell

Also available from

---

“A great book to read on a dark and stormy night... An excellent read”

— Amazon Review

“Well written and suspenseful... Couldn’t put it down”

— Amazon Review

“The best horror novel I have read in a long time”

— Amazon Review

---

The Haunted House From Hell - book excerpt

Prologue

Catherine Porter heard the horse and carriage pull up outside, just as the grandfather clock in the hallway struck 11pm.

She turned up the gas to help brighten the room, and made her way towards the front door to admit her son.

Outside, the rain lashed down on the cobbled stonework and she had to strain to hear his footsteps on the other side of the wooden door, as he drew closer up the path.

Before he had a chance to reach for the bell-pull, Catherine opened the door.

“Mother,” said Martin Porter, evidently shocked by his mother’s attendance. “Where on earth is Moresby?”

“I gave the servants the night off,” she replied, standing back to allow him entry.

Martin wiped his feet on the coarse coir doormat and pecked his mother on the cheek as he brushed by her on his way in. He walked over to the ornate hall standand placed his bag underneath. Having removed his topcoat and hat, he surveyed his appearance in the mirror, sliding his index finger across his moustache.

“Filthy night,” he remarked.

“Well, you’re home now so why don’t you come into the parlour and sit beside the fire?”

Martin turned to her. “Did you receive my telegram? I did say I would be home this evening expecting supper, and yet you saw fit to give the servants the night off.”

Catherine smiled. “I know, my darling boy, I’m sorry. But I had Cook make your favourite. Why don’t you pouryourself a drink and I’ll bring it in for you? I had Moresby decant a bottle of that Madeira you’re so fond of.”

Martin’s eyes lit up. “I thought you were saving that for Christmas?”

Catherine nodded. “I was, but I thought after your latest triumph in London, it would make a nice treat.”

Martin Porter spun around, and for a terrible moment, Catherine feared her son was about to launch himself at her. The look in his eyes flashed menace.

“You read about my work?” heenquired, his eyebrows dipping together as he scowled.

Catherine nodded.

“Do you think father would have been proud?” asked Martin.

“I’m sure he would have. I know I am.”

Martin seemed perplexed. “You are?”

“It’s not every day a mother can boast about her son giving his first address to the Royal College of Surgeons,” she replied proudly.

Martin relaxed. “Ah, yes, of course,” he nodded. “It did go rather well, even if I must say. Did you read Simpson’s account in the Times? Extremely flattering.”

Catherine placed her hand on his arm. “Why don’t you go inside and warm yourself? I’ll be in in a minute with your supper.”

Martin nodded and made his way into the parlour, where he was greeted by a roaring fire and a full decanter sitting on the sideboard.

He poured himself a large measure, and knocked it back without bothering to savour the rich aroma that he usuallyenjoyed from that particular vintage.

Martin felt a shudder of warmth seep through his aching limbs, and he allowed himself an audible shiver to dispel the night air.

The train from London had taken far longer than anticipated and, by the time it finally arrived at St Albans station, he was beginning to wish he had refused old Cuthbert’s offer of a drink at his club. If there were a championship for talking tedious nonsense, the tiresome old bore would walk away with the trophy, and he had bent Martin’s ear for the best part of two hours before he finally managed to make his excuses and leave.

Martin refilled his glass and made his way over to the fire.

Standing with his back to the guard, he warmed his behind, drying off the bottoms of his trousers, which were still wet from the puddle he had not seen as he left the station.

The Madeira floated on his tongue as he swilled it around in his mouth, savouring the flavour. His mother was right, he did deserve this. But not for his address – that he could have done with his eyes shut.

No, his other work was far more important, if not vital for the survival of their future generations.

Naturally, his mother did not understand, and even refused to discuss it. But Martin knew that his father would have. Had he have not been taken by that stroke the previous summer he would have probably insisted on working with his son to achieve his momentous goal.

Only a fellow surgeon would understand. But, that said, Martin was loath to reveal his work to any within his present circle, some of whom had already proved to be far too judgemental and narrow-minded.

But once his mission was finally recognised and celebrated, as such revelations should be, then, and only then, would he reveal himself to his peers and revel in their adoration.

Martin smiled triumphantly and, in his mind, he could hear the cheers and applause from the Royal College as distinguished fellows clamoured to shake his hand and pat him on the back.

Such accolades would indeed be worth the wait.

Catherine trundled in his supper on a serving trolley, and laid everything out on the table for him.

The aromatic smell of succulent steak and kidney in a red wine gravy assailed his nostrils, and brought an even broader grin to his face.

“Oh Mother, splendid,” he cried, making his way over to the table, and placing his half-empty glass next to his plate.

As he began to eat, Catherine retrieved the decanter of Madeira from the sideboard, and brought it over for him. She topped up his glass, and placed it beside him.

After his third mouthful, Martin looked up. “You’re not joining me?” he asked.

His mother shook her head. “No thank you, I ate earlier. I find it hard to digest such a large meal this late at night.”

Martin nodded his understanding, scooping a dollop of creamy mashed potatoes onto his fork, before shovelling it into his mouth.

Catherine sat opposite him and watched as her son made short work of his supper.

Ordinarily, she would have scolded him for rushing his food in such a manner. But, under the circumstances, it hardly seemed worth the effort.

He was enjoying his meal, and that was the main thing.

Barely stopping to draw breath, Martin polished off his meal with gusto, determined as ever to track down the last pea on his plate, before eventually replacing his knife and fork and pushing his plate away.

“That was delicious!” he announced. “One of cook’s best and no mistake.”

“Have you room for a little cheese?” asked Catherine. “Those water biscuits you like arrived yesterday.”

Martin nodded before throwing his head back to drain his glass.

Catherine left him alone while she fetched his cheese.

With shaking hands, she cut him generous portions of Cheddar and Stilton and placed them on a board, along with some grapes, an apple, and a stack of water biscuits.

She had noticed that her son was now on his fourth glass of Madeira, so she was confident that she could retire in peace after he had finished the rest of his meal.

Martin devoured his cheese with the same enthusiasm he had applied to his main course.

Catherine watched as he swallowed another full glass from the decanter.

When he was finally done, she refilled his glass once more, noticing that there was barely enough left for another, should he desire it.

“Why don’t you take this over to the fire and relax in the armchair?” she suggested. “I’ll make sure the fire in your room is lit so that it will be lovely and warm when you retire.”

Martin took his mother’s hand, and lifted it to his mouth to bestow a kiss.

“Whatever did I do to deserve such a wonderful woman in my life?” he asked rhetorically.

Catherine bent down and kissed the top of his head, smelling his hair as she used to when he was a baby in his crib.

As she climbed the stairs, she felt a single tear escape her eye, so she brushed it away with the back of her hand.

Upstairs, Catherine made her way along the landing until she was outside Martin’s door. Turning the handle, she went inside. Everything looked just the way he liked it. The servants had been informed by her son, in no uncertain terms,of exactly what he expected, and the consequences should they fail to adhere to his requirements.

The bed was neatly made, his pyjamas were draped over the foot, with his slippers warming by the fireplace.

His dressing table was immaculately laid out, with everything on top of it displayed at the correct angle, and in order of size.Catherine walked over to the largest wardrobe, and opened the door. All her son’s clothes were meticulously arrayed within, with each item facing the same way, as he insisted.

Reaching inside, Catherine retrieved the large, leather-bound scrapbook from under his folded undergarments, and took it over to the fire. She removed the wire fireguard and placed the book on top of the flames, adding a few extra logs from the pile beside the grate.

She watched as the paper caught, and within seconds the book became a flaming mass. Returning to the wardrobe, Catherine resettled the remaining garments to remove any evidence of her tampering before shutting the door.

Before leaving the room, Catherine turned and took one last look to ensure that the last of her son’s scrapbook was destroyed before she shut the door and made her way to her own bedroom.

The bath had been set up for her in front of the fire, which she had assured the servants she would light when she was ready. The water was tepid, having stood for so long, but it was more than suitable for her purposes.

Catherine removed her shoes, and placed her jewellery on her dressing table.

Opening the top drawer, she removed the letter she had written earlier, and made sure that it was prominently displayed, so that the servants would find it upon their return.

She took out the cut-throat razor with whichher husband had shaved until his dying day and carried it with her over to the tub.

Climbing in, fully clothed, Catherine sat down, allowing the lukewarm water to cover her body, up to her neck.

She undid the cuffs of her dress, and pulled back the sleeves, revealing her bare flesh.

Taking a deep breath, Catherine whispered a silent prayer, then she sliced through each wrist with a deep vertical thrust.

Placing her arms under the water, she watched as the colour grew crimson.

Her final thought was for Martin’s immortal soul.

Chapter 1

Derek Cole had worked as caretaker and general handyman for the Wentworth Trust since taking early retirement from the police force due to stress.

He loved his present occupation.

The company had offices all over England, and their main interest came from buying up dilapidated old houses from people who had inherited them from distant relatives, and who did not have the inclination, let alone the finances, to restore them to their former glory.

Wentworth could rip out the interior of a property within a week and, by the end of the same month, would have the place fully rewired, centrally heated, with new fixtures and fittings, ready to be sold on for an absolute fortune.

Derek worked in Hertfordshire, where he had lived his entire life. At present, he had more than 30 properties on his list, and it was his job to complete regular checks to ensure that boilers were working and taps had not frozen during the winter months, not to mention carrying out any remedial repairs as and when necessary.

He spent the bulk of his working day in his van, driving from one property to the next and he loved the freedom it gave him. The beautiful Hertfordshire countryside was more inspiring to him than any painting he had ever seen, whether portrait or landscape,whoever the artist might be.

If it had been up to him, Derek would have opted to stay overnight at some of the properties he maintained, with a couple of notable exceptions. But, although the company allowed it, Maggie would never hear of it. They had been married for more than 40 years, and she had always been a good wife. But, just lately, Derek had seen a change creep over her personality, and it was not one he warmed to.

It was almost as if she had grown bitter about the fact that she had opted to be a housewifeand spend her time looking after him and the home. They had never had children, due to a problem with Maggie’s tubes. According to the specialist, there was an operation that could have rectified the situation. But as there was no guarantee and Maggie hated hospitals at the best of times, she had decided not to go through with it.

For the most part, Maggie had been content with her lot. Or so it seemed to Derek.

Immensely houseproud, Maggie always ensured the house was scrupulously clean, regardless of whether they were expecting visitors. Even though they could easily afford it, she absolutely refused to hire a cleaner, even when her knees began to play up a few years ago.

She proudly hosted regular coffee mornings, and volunteered her services at their local church, with everything from flower arranging to tabletop sales.

There was hardly an evening when she was not attending some function or other. But still she always ensured that Derek’s dinner was on the table by 7pm, without fail, and woe betide him if he did not make it home in time.

But, just recently, Maggie had grown less enthusiastic about her duties. Most dinnertimes were spent with her complaining about the way someone kept their lawn, or what someone else had worn to a church function. The slightest thing seemed to set her off and, as Derek had learnt to his detriment, when she was in such a mood there was nothing to be gained from arguing with her, apart from being on the receiving end of an earful.

So Derek had learned to stay silent, and nod in agreement when necessary.

Most mornings, Derek sprang out of bed, eager to hit the road and complete his round, relishing the journey ahead.

But today, alas, was not one of those days.

Having spent more than 15 years as a uniformed police constable, Derek considered himself a level-headed and straightforward kind of man, not the sort who was given to idle fantasy or daydreams.

He did not believe in unidentified flying objects, or the Loch Ness Monster, Bigfoot, or fairies at the bottom of the garden.

But, for all that, he had seen and heard things that were very much out of his comfort zone. He had felt a familiar shiver of anticipation when he received the email detailinghis call list for the day.

There, at the top of his laptop screen, was the instruction he dreaded.

Go toPorter house. New buyers arriving this afternoon. Ensure all is as it should be.

Derek knew the house well and not just by reputation. As a bobby on the beat he had often been called upon to chase local kids away when they had been spotted in the grounds, up to no good.

Even entering through the main gates had given him an odd, eerie feeling, which he had never forgotten to this day.The old Porter house, as it had always been known, had been acquired by Wentworth’s almost 20 years before. The property dated back to the mid-19th century, but, during the majority of the 20th century the property had been rented out, because the descendants of the original family who owned it refused to live in it.

The house had, over the years, been used as an asylum for fallen and deranged women, a workhouse, a convalescent home for injured soldiers during the two wars, and, in between the wars, an adoption agency for orphaned children, as which it continued to operate after the Second World War until it was closed down in the sixties after a government inquiry discovered that some of the children were being farmed out to wealthy men who were allowed to use and abuse them as they saw fit.

After that, the property remained empty for a while, but then the family began to rent it out as a private residence once more. This too, proved to be less than successful as rumour had it that most tenants did not last more than a couple of weeks at best before refusing to stay any longer.

Eventually, the house was inherited by a distant relative living in Canada, who, aware of the house’s reputation, did not even bother to come over to England to inspect it, but instead, put it up for auction and Wentworth bought it.

Those who lived locally were made aware of the terrible secret of the Porter property when the local paper ran an article about the house back in the eighties.

According to the story, a mother poisoned her only son and heir, before committing suicide in the house. Since then, the property was said to be haunted by the ghostly apparition of the woman,wandering along the corridors, crying bitterly for her crimes.

The press had dubbed her“The Wailing Woman” and, since then, the title had stuck. Just after Wentworth acquired the property, an enterprising psychic society in the vicinity had asked permission to hold a séance in the house, to see if they could contact the spirit of the woman.

But the members of the board refused,concluding it would not be good for business to encourage such events. Even so, a local author who wrote extensively about the history of the area penned a book tracing the lineage of the family who had owned the property since it had been built, and naturally included a chapter on the incident with the mother and her son.

This inspired another author, one who was better known for his more lurid tales, to elaborate on the tragic event, and even managed to include several eye-witness accounts from some of those who had seen the weeping woman during their time spent at the house.

The Porter house had been on Wentworth’s books since they first purchased it and it was now, by far, the longest-held freehold property they owned. And now that they had finally managed to unload it, the directors were determined that everything should go like clockwork.

Although the property had been properly maintained over the years, a lot of the fixtures and fittings werefelt to be outdated so, as part of the deal, Wentworth’s had supplied and fitted a brand-new kitchen, and replaced two of the bathroom suites.

A gang of cleaners was sent in the day before it was viewed, and again on the day before the second viewing, just to ensure that the property would be seen at its absolute best.

There were rumours back at the main office that the agent who eventually clinched the sale was given a massive bonus and an extra twoweeks of annual leave.

Derek, for one, would not be sorry to see the house leave their books.

The property had shaken his belief system in such a way that it was impossible for him ever to return to his old way of thinking.

The first time he actuallyentered the property, he felt an icy chill sweep through his body like a cold rush or an arctic wind. Although he was at the time aware of the stories surrounding the old house, he put still his initial experience down to that fact that someone had obviously left a window open, probably somewhere upstairs.

But, on inspection, he soon realised that this was not the case.

The property seemed to be permeated with the cold, and even when Derek, as part of his duties, tested the central heating system, although each radiator was too hot to touch, the very atmosphere inside the house still made it feel as if icy fingers were stretching out and grabbing at his very soul.

That same feeling overwhelmed him as he drove in through the gates for what, he hoped, would be his last-ever visit to the Porter house.

Derek parked his van on the gravel drive and stared up at the daunting property from his seat. It was early morning and the autumn sun had barely started to make its climb across the eastern sky, but even so, the daylight gave him courage.

As he walked to the front door, Derek felt eyes staring at him from the darkened windows above. But he refused to look up and pander to his overactive imagination.

Although he had never actually seen the wailing woman for himself, he had, on many occasions, caught a glimpse of something from the corner of his eye as he was making his rounds. Added to which, there was an eerie feeling of someone close behind him that he often experienced while walking through the old house.

To date, he had never turned around to see if anything was lurking behind him. This was not something he would ever admit to. Derek could not imagine what the reaction would be from his former colleagues, some of whom he still met regularly for a pint in the local, if he ever let on to the fact that, deep down, he was afraid.

Derek made his way round the house, switching on all the lights as he went. He justified this by telling himself that it was part of his job to test the electricity, but deep down he knew the truth behind his actions.

Even in broad daylight the Porter house appeared gloomy.

He whistled to himself as he made his rounds to block out any unusual noises that he might otherwise feel obliged to investigate. Old houses were forever creaking and groaning without outside interference, but, under the circumstances, Derek preferred ignorance.

He switched on the boiler to start up the central heating, as instructed, for all the good it would do. When the renovations took place, it was decided to leave the open fireplaces in the downstairs rooms in situ, as a character feature. Derek had overseen the delivery last week of fresh logs for the fires so, once the heating was on, he made his way to the utility room and collected some to build a fire in each room.

Once he was satisfied with everything, Derek took himself back out to his van for a cup of coffee. He carried a full flask each day but usually enjoyed it inside whichever property he was visiting.

This house was the one notable exception.

As he drained his cup, he noticed one of the Wentworth company cars turning into the driveway.

Derek screwed the cap back on his flask and placed it on the passenger seat, before stepping out and slamming the door.

He recognised Pam Stewart as she waved at him through the side window, before pulling up across from his van.

“Morning, Derek,” she said, brightly, “just arrived?”

Derek shook his head. “No, I’ve been here about an hour, been checking that everything is ship-shape and Bristol fashion, as per instructions.”

“Well done. Anything to report?”

Derek shook his head. “Only that I won’t be sorry to see the last of this place after today.”

Pam shot him a serious glance. “Not so loud,” she cautioned, looking around them to see if anyone might be lurking close enough to overhear their conversation.

Derek nodded his understanding.

“Come on,” continued Pam, “you can help me unload the box of goodies I’ve got in the boot.”

Derek followed her around to the back of her car, and she released the catch using the remote on her keyring. Sitting next to her briefcase, he saw a cardboard box inside filled with all manner of refreshments.