The Witch Hunt (Jonny Roberts Series Book 3) Read online

  The Witch Hunt

  Jonny Roberts: Book Three

  Alexander Lound

  Books by Alexander Lound:

  The Spirit in the Crypt

  The Burned House

  The Witch Hunt

  Copyright © 2021 Alexander Lound.

  All rights reserved.

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  About the author

  I would like to thank my readers. Without you, none of this would be possible.

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  1

  Rain falling against the window, skating along the glass. I wondered: if I were to get out of bed, trace the raindrop with my fingertip, how long would it take to fall to its eventual death?

  I stared as it trickled to the windowsill, mingled with all the other raindrops. Before it became a pool of water, each little raindrop merging, an unidentifiable mass.

  I ripped my eyes from my bedroom window, glanced at the alarm clock. Eleven in the morning, glaring at me in big, red numbers. Mum had already tried to rouse me from my cocoon. But what was the point in getting up, just to spend another miserable summer’s day watching re-runs of Friends; vegging on whatever crap I could find on Netflix?

  There was no point. No point whatsoever. And even if the weather hadn’t been dreadful, I had no purpose to go outside, the realm that was becoming a distant memory. I had no one to hang out with. Because, after all, my best friend was dead, and had been for over a month now. Something that had been my fault. All my fault.

  And why would anyone else want to see me, for exactly that reason? Why would they?

  I closed my eyes. Creased them. Pulled the duvet cover over my head, the darkness a comfort that always turned to a cruelty, because having nothing to concentrate on always made me think of Stephen. My punishment, I supposed.

  My mind became a film, one that I knew the ending to. One that I knew was going to break me, but that I needed to watch all the same. His funeral: his parents sobbing, tears menacing their cheeks. Grasping each other, holding hands and arms and shoulders. While I sat behind them, wanting to tell them how he had really died. Why he had really died. That I should never have got him involved in a world that he was meant to have had nothing to do with. Because I was the one with the powers, the one who was cursed. Not him. And it was meant to have been me that died. Not him.

  Not him.

  But, if I were to have told them the real truth, then it would have been treated like some sick joke. They probably would have blamed my stupidity on the stress of losing my best mate. Maybe they’d have recommended me for counselling, have treated me like a lunatic. They would certainly have never believed me.

  In fact, there were only two others who knew what happened to Stephen. One of them I hadn’t spoken to since our final encounter with Megan Johnson. The other I’d last seen at the funeral. Three rows behind me. Wearing a black dress. Dark make up. The deep cut on her forehead finally healing into a gnarled scar. But it didn’t matter, because to me, she had only looked more incredible. I could only love her more.

  I tried to make eye contact with her a couple of times. One time, she caught my glance, held it for a brief second with her magnificent blue eyes, only to look away again. I found myself trying to read into it.

  It wasn’t until the reception that I finally managed to speak to her. She’d been standing in the corner, alone. She knew no one at the funeral except me.

  As I’d approached, she’d given me an awkward smile, before looking to the floor. She had her arms crossed. The same arms that had held me close so many times. Had cared for me and protected me and loved me.

  I tried not to look at her scar, but couldn’t help it. As my eyes fixed on it, she quivered under my gaze.

  Her smile twisting to a frown.

  Our brief ‘hi’ was awkward. I cut to the chase, asked her how she was doing. She told me she was coping. I said I was doing the same. And that, really, was it, our conversation drying up as soon as it had started, all the unspoken things creating a desert between us. The silence a needle, pushing my pain even deeper into my heart. And, as her looks went everywhere but at me, I thought about how much I wanted to hold her, bring her close to me, whisper into her ear that everything was going to be okay.

  That was when she made the excuse; she had physiotherapy for her neck. The neck that had been so severely damaged in the crash.

  And, as I watched her walk away, the distant memories of affection faded. Instead, her words at the hospital echoed through my mind.

  That she couldn’t do it anymore. That it was all too much.

  And I had to accept it. As she walked away from me in her black dress, mourning everything that she’d lost, I had to accept it.

  Had to accept that I had lost everything too.

  The rain cleared in the afternoon. Shortly after, I finally wandered downstairs. I hurled myself on the sofa, spread my body across it. Then, I grabbed the remote, and started my afternoon ritual with the television. Ignoring the world. Pretending that my life was those four walls, the television, and nothing else.

  I’d watched four episodes of Friends by the time Mum came home. It was a Saturday, and she’d gone for coffee with a friend. She felt so sorry for me that she’d even asked me if I wanted to come. Perhaps it should have jarred me, made me realise what I’d become. Instead, it did nothing. My heart had become lead. Cold. Impenetrable.

  As she walked into the living room, saw me dressed in pyjama shorts and a t-shirt, she sighed. Dropped her shopping bags to the floor. Her face became gloomy, in the way that it always did now, whenever she set eyes on me.

  “What time did you get out of bed?”

  I turned back to the TV, tried to ignore her look. “A couple of hours ago. Why?”

  She gave a single, short laugh. “You know why. You’ve had the same routine for two weeks. Lie in until mid-afternoon. Get up. Watch TV. Eat. Go back to bed.”

  I shrugged. “That’s what I want to do.”

  She wandered over to the other sofa. “And that’s the issue,” she said as she sat down, with an even bigger sigh. “Before I say this, I want you to know that I’m telling you because you’re my son, and I love you.”

  “Telling me what?”

  She sat forwards, looked at me softly, like she didn’t want to say whatever she was about to. “That you ‒ you need to try to move on. This may sound harsh, and I’m sorry. But, Stephen ‒ he’s gone, Jonny. And Cassy ‒ at least for the moment ‒ she’s gone, too. And I’m so, so, sorry for that. So, so sorry. But, lying around all day like this, not living your life ‒ well, it’s not going to do anything for you.”

  I shook my head. Closed my eyes. Tried to feel Mum’s words. Tried to let them through my shell.

  “I know,” I said, after a time.

  Mum tried to smile. “Then what are you going to do? Are you going
to try to go out? Are you going to try to change things? Try to ‒ to move on?”

  I felt my temper rise.

  “Don’t you think I know that I need to move on, live my life again?” Mum just stared at me. So, I continued. “But, think about it. I don’t have anyone else, so what’s the point?”

  “You’re happier wallowing in your own self-pity ‒ doing nothing ‒ acting like a zombie all day?”

  My temper broke. “Can I remind you, Mum, of how you acted after Dad left?”

  I knew that it was an awful thing to say, confirmed by the sight of Mum crumpling into her chair. I rubbed my eyes, my stomach churning. I wished I could rewind a few seconds.

  “I’m sorry, Mum . . . I didn’t mean to—”

  “—No, it’s okay. I understand. I know how awful it feels. And you’re right, that was how I acted. And maybe that was wrong of me. But please, if anything, learn from my mistakes. I know how terrible it feels to lose someone. But give it time. Give it time and effort, and it’ll be okay. Not brilliant, granted. But okay.”

  I stared at the wall. “I don’t know, Mum. I don’t know if it will be.”

  She pulled herself up from her sofa then. Wandered over to me, and sat. She placed a hand on my shoulder, warm against my pyjama top.

  “You can do this. You can get through it.”

  I nodded. Didn’t say anything. Because in truth, I couldn’t see an end to this at all.

  The July days blended together. Grey skies bringing rain, interrupted by the occasional bout of sun. More days spent in bed. More days spent watching TV. Doing little else.

  Every now and then, I checked my phone. A compulsive twitch that existed inside of me. A twitch built on a wish: that she would text me.

  But there had been nothing. In fact, the only text I’d received over the past two weeks had been from Aaron. Telling me that he hadn’t seen me for a while, and he hoped I was holding up. Telling me that he was always available for a chat and a cup of tea.

  I didn’t reply. I’d already decided that I was leaving that life behind me. And if I was leaving it behind me, then I had to leave Aaron behind me, too. After all, me speaking to the dead had already cost Stephen’s life. Who might die next? Mum? Cassy? Aaron? It was better for everyone if I stayed away. If I locked myself in my bedroom, where the dead couldn’t find me. Where I could be normal. Not a medium. Not cursed.

  Though at times, I did feel a little guilty for ignoring Aaron. Apart from Mum, he was perhaps the only person left who cared about me.

  Or at least, so I thought.

  2

  It was early August, evening, a little after seven. Mum and I were watching a game show on TV.

  The first time the phone rang, we left it. It was cold callers, we agreed. Hardly worth missing out on seeing who went through to the next round of the show. Either Chris or Deborah. But when it started ringing again, she sighed, said that she’d better get it. Maybe it was one of her mates. Maybe it was work.

  However, when I heard her yells echoing through the hallway, I knew the caller couldn’t have been either of those.

  I got up, poked my head around the living room door. Mum was stood in the kitchen, the phone at her ear. Her face was red from shouting. For a moment, she caught my eye. I wondered if I should pull back into the lounge, leave her to it.

  But, as I turned, I heard his name escape her mouth. And that was when it felt like my whole world had turned upside down.

  At first, I just stared at the phone, stared at Mum, as all the pieces fitted together in my mind. His name. Mum’s shouting. Her red face.

  Then, not knowing what to think or feel, I ghosted back across the living room, my stomach buzzing. I slouched into the sofa. Stared at the television, not seeing or watching, the game show paling into insignificance. I was left with a mess of a mind. Wondering why he’d got back into contact, why now.

  When Mum marched into the living room, her eyes burning with anger, it took me a moment to realise that she was walking towards me. Took me a moment to refocus, see the phone in her outstretched hand.

  In a wave of realisation, the confusion inside of me was replaced with total rage.

  “I don’t want to speak to him,” I said. Not after everything he’d done. I’d heard nothing from him in over a year, absolutely nothing. He’d dumped Mum and I like we were worn-out furniture. He’d left us for a woman nearly half his age, and had moved halfway across the country, practically overnight. He’d quit his job a month before leaving, without telling us, and the day he’d left had been his final day of notice. His new lady was so rich, he’d said, all inheritance from her parents. He’d said she’d help him before he found a new job.

  He told us all of this just before he walked out of the door. He’d said sorry as he left, but it had been dull. How could he say sorry when all he’d done was lie? Lie after lie after lie. And I still didn’t even know what the woman’s name was.

  I didn’t want to speak to him. I really didn’t. But Mum’s new facial expression told me that I needed to. And then I thought back. He and I at Stamford Bridge, watching Chelsea against Spurs. Celebrating together. Going for a burger after the game. Laughing.

  Going fishing. Him showing me how to hold the line. The perfect manoeuvre for catching a fish.

  Playing frisbee at the park when I was a little boy. Laughing. Having fun.

  Why had he ruined it all? Why had he thrown a shroud over all our memories? Everything that was meant to have mattered to him?

  “He wants to speak to you,” said Mum, the phone still held in front of me, like the red button for a nuclear bomb. “I can’t tell you why he thinks we want to speak to him, after all this time.” Her voice rose as she said this, to make sure that he heard her. “But I can’t deny my son the chance to speak to his own father. So, it’s your choice. Would you like to speak to him?”

  I stared at the phone a little longer. All my thoughts battled for space. I could say no, I realised, treat him in the same way that he’d treated me. But then I thought about the past once again. The distant past. The past before his lies.

  I took the phone from Mum’s palm. Lifted it to my ear.

  “Dad,” I said, before he could even squeeze in a word. I hoped that my one word conveyed all my emotions. Sadness. Anger. Disappointment.

  The line went quiet. Then I heard a long, masculine sigh.

  “Hi, son.”

  “Why are you calling?”

  He paused for a moment. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I assumed that as you hadn’t talked to me for over a year-and-a-half, you’d have a good reason.”

  He sighed again. “I’m sorry, son. I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t know what to say?” Mum was watching me, her stare splitting the air. I knew that she’d be wishing that she could hear Dad’s every word. “How about a real apology? For starters, on what world do you think it’s okay to leave Mum and I for another woman, and then not speak to us for over a year, like it was all our fault? Because it wasn’t our fault, Dad. It was yours. You lied to us for a year. You did everything you could to set up your perfect getaway. And then you left us. Left us and ignored us like we meant nothing to you.” As each word left my mouth, the heaviness in my heart grew. “In fact, I’m hanging up the phone. Don’t call me again.”

  “Wait, wait,” I heard, as I pulled the phone away from my ear.

  “What?” I said, putting it back again. Stupid. Giving him a second chance, as if he deserved it.

  “Just give me a chance to explain. Look, I live near London now. A little place in Hertfordshire.”

  “With your new wife?”

  “She’s my partner, but not my wife. Look, I’m sorry, Jonny. Sorry about everything. I should never have acted in the way that I did. It’s just things got so ‒ difficult. Between your mother and I, I mean. But I can’t explain it like this, not over the phone. Hence why I was going to suggest that you come up to Hertfordshire for a weekend. I know
you’re on summer holiday, and it would be good to catch up. To see you again.”

  I didn’t say anything. I let the seconds pass, while I thought. Thought about Dad, and everything he’d done to us.

  Thought about the fishing trips. The football. The frisbee.

  Eventually, I said, “Why do you think I’d want to come all the way to Hertfordshire to see you?”

  It was Dad’s turn to pause. “Like I said. To catch up. For me to try to make some of this up to you.”

  I shook my head. “I’ll think about it.” And then, realising there was nothing else I wanted to say to him, “I’m giving the phone back to Mum now.”

  I didn’t listen as he said goodbye. I could only hear the faint static of his words as I passed the phone to Mum. As soon as she regained the phone, she marched back to the kitchen. Clearly, she hadn’t finished her own rant.

  Meanwhile, I sat and stewed. I couldn’t believe that Dad wanted me to come all the way to Hertfordshire to visit him, as if I needed to go out of my way for him. And the way he’d invited me, to ‘catch up’, made it sound like I hadn’t seen him for a few weeks, rather than a year-and-a-half.

  He was oblivious to what he’d done. Completely and utterly oblivious.

  As Mum walked back into the living room, shaking her head and barely suppressing her rage, I made up my mind.

  “There’s no way that I’m going to visit him.”

  Mum sat down across from me. On the TV, Deborah was celebrating winning the jackpot.

  “I can’t believe him,” said Mum. “I just cannot believe him.”

  “I don’t know what world he lives in. Thinking he can call us like that, after everything he did to us.”

  This time, Mum didn’t reply. It was now that I realised how badly shaken she was.

  “Mum? Are you okay?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m fine. It’s just been such a long time since I’ve heard from him, and I’d finally forgotten about him and ‒ well, I suppose he’s thrown himself right back into our lives again, hasn’t he?”