Quietly, they entered the kirkyard, one by one and not a sound made. They looked around and made sure nobody was looking and they formed the circle, as they had always done before. Without saying a word they joined hands and they looked up, almost willing something to happen or someone to join them. Silence. Nothing was said, nothing moved and even the wind had stopped blowing; deathly silence that was deafening, almost terrifying if the truth was told.
Constable MacAlister stepped back from the ancient kirkyard gates and took a small black book from his inside pocket. He made a few notes that only he would ever be able to decipher and he referred back through the pages, quietly leafing until he stopped and the colour drained from his face. Seven in total, three women, four men. The arrangement was methodical and precise; there was no room for error and he had definitely uncovered them. Two years had passed since the first attack in St Cuthbert’s Churchyard and the Detective Inspector had all but given up on closing this – too many loose ends, evidence destroyed and not a single lead to go on.
…until now. HE would be the one to crack this one wide open and the promotion he had sought for so many years, bypassed and overlooked would be his. He put his notebook back into his pocket and quietly removed his mobile phone. Studiously and purposefully he composed shot after shot, making maximum use of the limited features that he’d seen no real use for until now; blury shots and less blurry shots and then he made a short video and attempted to record the audio. He had all he needed and with some facial recognition technology, they would be identified.
The group were repeatedly engaged in reciting the same chant, low and ominous sounding over and over again. As he turned to slip his mobile phone into his pocket, the familiar face of his beloved Alice appeared on the screen. The world stopped for that split-second and he froze, unable to move, stricken with the fear that had consumed his whole body. This wasn’t anything to do with the terror of the McKenzie Poltergeist or tales of the macabre exerpeinced here over the last 460 years. This was real. That song, THEIR song blasted out and filled the silent kirkyard with gusto and conviction. He was rumbled. They turned, slowly and they faced him up, cold and calculated. THEY would not be stopped. Not by him. Not by anyone.
As the phone slipped from his trembling hand and smashed on the cobbles below his feet, the picture of Alice disappeared, the music stopped and he felt his heart bursting from his mouth. Just then…