A real scientific expedition would have set up in Lydchurch and stayed for at least a week. Cav’s interests, of course, weren’t scientific. He just wanted the team to sign off on having seen nothing, so he could buy the property and show his business partners that the dumb ghost legend was nothing to worry about. So we were going to visit Lydchurch for a single night, arriving at nine o’clock, after the summer sun had gone down, and probably quitting by midnight. If the clear weather changed to rain, we might leave sooner. Poor Jane really wasn’t going to get a fair chance.

​

At five past eight, we left the cafe and all got aboard the university minibus which Nadia had borrowed. It was a twelve-seater, and the passenger compartment had sliding doors on both sides and a pair of back doors behind the rear four seats. Nadia took the driving seat and no one else dared to join her up front. We all buckled-up: Tim and Jane each choosing one of the two double-seats behind Nadia; me taking the single seat located left of Jane; and Cav keeping the four back seats to himself. I was a little concerned about Nadia driving, as her temperament was so volatile that another argument could have her veering off the road.

​

Looking back, if Nadia had crashed us on the way to Lydchurch, things could have turned out a lot better. Certainly, more of us might have lived to see the next sunrise.

 

*     *     *

 

Cav broke the awkward silence after five minutes of travel. He addressed Jane, who was sitting in front of him and to the right.

​

“So, Jane, can you fill me in on the meat-and-potatoes of this legend? All I’ve heard was a spooky tale from the local real estate people. Sounded like something from an old movie.”

​

Jane frowned for a few seconds. It was hard to believe that Cav would set up this expedition without doing any research himself. I reckon we both concluded he was just making conversation.

​

“Well, proven history shows there was a thriving smuggling community in Lydchurch in the 1820’s. On certain nights, villagers would light bonfires on the beach a mile away across the marshes. Ships would come in and drop off all kinds of contraband by boat. The goods were hidden all over the area, in caves in the cliffs, in cellars, in barns, and even buried in coffins in the churchyard.

​

“The customs and excise men tried to crack the smugglers’ ring for years. They ran around in circles and were made to look like bloody fools. Occasionally things got nasty. Smugglers and soldiers would clash, and the fights were brutal and merciless. When a bunch of villagers were killed on a beach one night in 1826, other villagers took revenge in a series of ambushes.” She paused and offered an explanation. “You see, these village folk weren’t simply criminals. They were poor people, taxed to the point of starvation – smuggling was a way of feeding their families and striking back against the rich. The customs and excise men were ruthless thugs who enjoyed their work.

​

“After the ambushes, a Captain Hargreaves was brought in to crush the smugglers. He was a murderous son-of-a-bitch. His first act was to take three villagers at random and hang them outside the village church. Then he arrested a bunch of suspects and took them away for torture. Everyone in the village knew it was the end for them. They all decided to leave one night – but not without a final act of defiance. Hargreaves was kidnapped and taken to Lydchurch... His soldiers found him the next day, in the centre of the silent, empty village: he’d been tied to a stake, surrounded by kindling and burned alive.”

​

Cav gave a murmured “Oh... my... God.”

​

“Now we drift into legend,” Jane went on. “Stories say Hargreaves’ spirit could not find peace and went insane. A week after his death came the first reports of a Burning Rider – a glowing spectre which killed anything in the vicinity of Lydchurch. He first slew his own men, maybe because they failed to protect him. Soldiers were found, butchered or beheaded, their corpses scorched. Travellers crossing the area at night were attacked and massacred. Nothing was ever stolen, so suspicions that the killings were made by some remaining villagers or robbers were soon dismissed. The area was abandoned...”

​

If Cav expected the story to end there, he was wrong.

​

“Twenty years later, people who had lost their homes elsewhere tried to move into Lydchurch. They were slaughtered on the first night. Investigations were made and a number of soldiers posted in the area were slain at night. Once more, the region was abandoned... Over the next decades, distant glimpses were made of a blazing figure on horseback at night. People continued to shun the area... And the cycle would repeat. The legend would be forgotten or dismissed after a while and people would venture into Lydchurch again. Those intruders would die and the area was soon vacated. No killers were ever caught. Investigations were soon shelved.”

​

“Even in more modern times?” Cav asked.

​

“Oh, yes. There were similar incidents before and after World War One. During the Second World War, the authorities briefly tried to make Lydchurch a location for evacuees from London – because of the Blitz: after a dozen deaths, they gave up. Holidaymakers wandered near Lydchurch in the fifties, sixties and seventies, and were found butchered and scorched. You can look up all of these unsolved murders. During the eighties, the government made the Lydchurch area off-limits due to a so-called biological contamination. During the nineties, the area became a nature reserve, which no one was allowed to enter. These were just excuses to save lives...

​

“Unfortunately, in the Twenty-First Century, we’re back around to the disbelieving part of the cycle. Greedy people are wondering why they can’t make money from the land.” Jane paused awkwardly, remembering she was speaking to one of those people. “So I’m afraid we may be due for more deaths.”

​

A nasty, bitter laugh came from the front of the minibus.

​

“I take it you disagree, Nadia?” said Cavendish.

​

“Unfortunately for Miss Wolfe, reality is not some gothic Hammer Horror movie. The fact is, Lydchurch has been abandoned for a long time. Unsavoury characters have used the ridiculous legend to cover their crimes. Successive Police forces have been too lazy to properly investigate an isolated location, or have suffered at the hands of criminals when they made small efforts. Lydchurch is about as supernatural as my arse!”

​

“I doubt anything would want to haunt your scrawny arse,” Jane snapped back.

​

I had to choke down laughter. Score another one to the Believers.

​

The vehicle zigzagged sharply and I recalled my worries about Nadia driving. I was relieved when the course straightened.

​

Before Nadia could vent her rising anger, Tim offered his own brand of wisdom.

​

“What I can’t understand, Jane,” he drawled, “is this: if you believe a murderous spirit is on the rampage, why are you coming with us tonight? Don’t you believe we’ll all be killed?”

​

Jane smiled quite maliciously. “I believe many of you might. You won’t believe in the Rider until it’s too late... I intend to collect photographic evidence of him and get the fuck out of Lydchurch before he slices me to pieces.”

​

Tim was taken aback. “Oh. I see. Well, it’s good that you have a plan.”

​

Cav looked like he might be sick.

​