Free The Stranger House by Reginald Hill

sick. He lowered the window and leaned forward to rest his forehead against the cool windscreen. He could hear the noise of rushing water, and of wind gusting through trees. And now as his headache eased, there was something else in the wind … voices … angry voices … calling … threatening … and something … someone … running in panic … cold air tearing at his lungs as weary muscles drove him up the steep slope in his effort to outpace the relentless chasers …
    This was worse than migraine. He tried to will the headache back. It would not come. But there was pain very close. He could feel it. Very very close …
    Mig in the car could not move. But there was part of him out there with the fugitive, feeling the cold air tearing at his lungs, branches lashing across his face, runnels of muddy water sucking at his feet …
    And then he was down … stumbling over an exposed root, he crashed to the ground and looked up at the bole of a blasted tree, looming menacingly out of the mist.
    And then they were all around him, feet kicking at him, hands clawing him and hoisting him off the ground and binding ropes tightly around his chest and stomach, till he hung from the ruined tree.
    For a moment, there was respite.
    In the car Mig felt that one last supreme effort would regain the power of movement.
    But now came the pain. In his hands, in his feet, not just the familiar prickling, not even the sharp pangs experienced on the few occasions he’d actually bled, but real, piercing, unbearable pain, as if broad blunt nails were being driven through his palms and his ankles …
    He screamed and threw back his head and tried to fall into blackness away from this agony.
    And in the same moment, the pain fled, he opened his eyes and looked up through the windscreen of the Mercedes at a bright and starry sky with not a trace of mist to be seen.
    And when he lowered his gaze he saw ahead of him, about fifty yards away, a building with windows aglow and a sign which bore the silhouette of a hooded figure and the words
The Stranger House.

6  •  
Pillow Problems
    At eight that evening, Sam descended the creaky stairs of the pub.
    On her walk back from the church, her irrational fear had turned to rational anger. Why hadn’t Rev. Pete or those other two antiques mentioned the hidden stone bearing her name? Two possible answers … no; three. Either they didn’t know about it, or they knew about it but were certain it had nothing to do with her, or they knew it had something to do with her but preferred she stayed ignorant.
    The first seemed unlikely. It was Swinebank’s church; Woollass was the local squire—sorry—squire’s son; as for Thor Winander, he gave the impression he’d know everything round here.
    The second was the simplest explanation. It was an old inscription that they knew could have nothing to do with her family. Fair enough, though it didn’t look all that old, not antique anyway like some of the not dissimilar lettering on the old headstones.
    As for the third, that was less likely but more troublesome.
    One thing was sure, before she left she needed an explanation. But she’d give them every chance tovolunteer one before she started throwing punches.
    This decision made, she lay on her bed for ten minutes, which when she opened her eyes had turned into three hours, giving the chance for the shoulder and hip which had borne the brunt of her fall to stiffen up and turn an interesting shade of aubergine.
    She headed for the bathroom opposite her bedroom door. The water was piping hot and the old-fashioned bath deep enough to float in. A long soak eased the worst of her stiffness, and now she realized she was very hungry.
    At the top of the stairs she heard voices below at the entrance end of the shadowy hallway. Alerted by the unavoidable creakings, the speakers stopped. Then one of the figures moved into the dim light and said, “Here she is now. You can ask her yourself.”
    It was Mrs Appledore.