Free The Ghosts of Sleath by James Herbert

original lords of the manor hereabouts, as well as the community’s spiritual guides. In fact, the Lockwood family has been part ofSleath’s history for many generations. Do you know what a “squarson” is?’
    ‘Afraid not.’
    ‘It’s a term dating from the eighteenth century when the local squire and parson were one and the same person.’
    ‘It must have been a powerful combination.’
    ‘It was. Perhaps too much so.’ She looked off into the distance and it was several moments before she spoke again. ‘We’re the poor generation of Lockwoods now, and my father has only the usual vicar’s influence over his parish. Which isn’t very much in this day and age,’ she added with a smile. ‘I work part-time at the community hall, so that brings in a little extra. It keeps me occupied too.’
    ‘You said the vicarage is closer to the church than it used to be,’ Ash reminded her, still puzzled by the statement.
    ‘Sorry, I digressed. Lockwood Hall stood in the heart of its own estate, but the house burned down a couple of hundred years or so ago. My father and I live in what was once the lodge at the entrance to the grounds.’
    ‘Quite a change in circumstances.’
    ‘Not at all. The Lockwoods lost most of their wealth long before my father was born. I’ve never been used to anything else.’
    He could tell by her smile there was no regret. ‘I’m sure your father is just as respected by the people here,’ he said. Even if the local landlord didn’t seem too keen on his vicar , he thought.
    ‘Oh, I don’t think the old Lockwoods were very popular. They had to keep order in the parish as well as preach God’s word.’
    ‘Yeah, I noticed the stocks and whipping post down in the village.’
    ‘There were worse punishments than that in the old days.’
    ‘I can’t imagine too many villains in a quiet place like this.’
    ‘Perhaps not nowadays, but Sleath has certainly had its moments in the past.’
    ‘Some of your mouchers were pointed out to me in the Black Boar this morning.’
    ‘Mouchers? My word, you’re learning fast.’
    ‘The landlord explained the term.’
    ‘Well, we still have our share of poachers and thieves, plus the usual village carryings-on.’
    ‘Any witches’ covens, satanists, that kind of thing?’
    She laughed. ‘Now what made you ask that?’
    ‘Just a general line of enquiry - isolated community and all that.’
    ‘We’re not that isolated. True, the villagers tend to keep to themselves, but even that’s beginning to change.’
    They were well past the church boundary by now and the narrow lane had evened out. Woodland and hills lay ahead of them, with only a few houses in view here and there.
    ‘How’s it changing?’ he asked, swinging his jacket over his shoulder and tucking his other hand into his trouser pocket.
    ‘The younger people are leaving, looking for work in the towns or moving down to London. Even the young children are bussed to a school in the next town these days.’
    He stopped walking. ‘But I passed the village school on the way up here. I heard the kids singing.’
    She stopped too. ‘You heard them? No, it must have been a radio in one of the cottages.’
    ‘It came from the school,’ he insisted. ‘The kids were singing a hymn as I walked by.’
    ‘You’re mistaken,’ she insisted, and there was more than just puzzlement in her pale blue eyes: there was the merest hint of alarm. ‘Sleath Primary closed down two years ago. The school is empty.’

8
    K NIT ONE, PURL ONE , knit one, purl one …
    Ellen Preddle sat by the window, the only sound in the tiny front room the click of her knitting needles as they made contact. Her fingers worked deftly, the beginnings of the boy’s jumper she was making lying across her knees, the red ball of wool on a stool by her chair.
    Knit one, purl one, knit one, purl one …
    It was an unspoken litany - although her lips moved in voiceless rhythm - a means of concentrating her mind, keeping