Dreamwalkers Book One: The Intruder. A Markland Garraway Paranormal Mystery Thriller

It has been a tough couple of years for Markland Garraway.

In September 2009 Ben Walker was murdered on a Bronze Age burial mound in Badock’s Wood in Bristol. Daniel Boyd, fled the scene and thought he had got away with the horrific crime he had committed.

But the burial mound held a secret and Ben lived on. His spirit was nurtured within Christopher Jameson, who was born at the precise time that Ben died.

Three years later, DI Garraway, along with hypnotist Tom Judd, communicated with Ben’s spirit through toddler, Christopher Jameson whilst he was under hypnosis.

Markland Garraway is the only detective to have closed a case with the evidence provided by the murder victim; after the victim was killed.

Solving the crime had turned him into a reluctant hero, and proving that life exists after death made him famous around the world.

But all things come at a cost. Markland suffered ridicule whilst on the case. Support from the Avon and Somerset Constabulary had been minimal and he had been signed off as unfit to work for almost a year.

He had suffered mental health, crippling arthritis, alcoholism and to add to everything, his wife left him. Joan, was unable to cope with her husband and the way he had been affected by the case.

And all because of the influence of the burial mound, which Markland refers to as ‘The Hill’.

Tom Judd has recently published his memoirs in a book called ‘The Man Who Caught His Killer’. Immediately it is a best seller and Markland finds himself, once again, in the spotlight.

Markland continues on the road to recovery, vowing never to set foot in Badock’s Wood again.

But The Hill has not finished with Markland Garraway.

Once More, the burial mound in the woods is reaching out to him.

Chapter 1

Markland Garraway’s House

Bristol

October 1st 2015

10.38 pm

Markland Garraway deadlocked the door, took off his coat and slumped in his chair.

He’d been on a date. The lady was beautiful, a few years younger than he and with a smile which lit the room. It hadn’t been an easy evening. The food in Bottelinos Italian restaurant had been lovely, but neither of them where in the mood for eating and their conversation had been marred by an air of awkwardness.

Baby steps, thought Markland while he pondered over the evening.

They had agreed to meet again, but she’d said she would call him when she was ready.

Baby steps, thought Markland again.

It had been eighteen months since the conviction of Daniel Boyd for the murder of Ben Walker and Stanley Brown, and just over two years since Liz Mason took her last breath at the bottom of the small hill in Badock’s Wood. Markland would never forget the memory of Liz’s body with her hand gripping the hand of three-year-old Christopher Jameson. It was also just over two years since the unbearable arthritis which contorted and twisted his body had inexplicably left him the moment Liz passed away.

Markland had taken early retirement a few months after the dust had settled. Initially he’d been in a state of euphoria. Euphoria because he’d been proven right all along, euphoria because he’d got one over on both Sergeant Colin Matthews and Detective Superintendent Munroe, and euphoria because he’d got one over on all of those who’d disbelieved him over what he knew to be true about the extraordinary Ben Walker case. He’d been especially pleased to have proven to DS Munroe that he’d been right, as the two of them had rarely seen eye to eye, and the lack of support given by Munroe at such a vulnerable time during Markland’s life had left a bitter taste. There had been little love lost between the two men.

The case had briefly made Markland famous around the world. He’d been the only detective known to have used evidence provided by a murder victim to catch his killer. Now his fame was rising again because Thomas Judd had published his memoirs in a book called ‘The Man Who Caught His Killer’, where the hypnotist recalled how he gleaned information from Ben Walker by way of hypnotising the toddler Christopher. Walker’s spirit had lived within the boy and had been able to communicate to Judd. The book had only been published for two months and already was a best seller. Judd’s publishers were currently negotiating a movie deal.

But Markland’s euphoria had been relatively short-lived. After taking long term leave on health grounds, he found his new position within the police force as a trainer to rookie up and coming detectives had lost its lustre and he couldn’t stomach returning to his original role as a regular Detective Chief Inspector.

His bittersweet relationship with his former partner, Sergeant Matthews, had become bitter again. Despite meeting for a drink a few months after the Walker case had closed, to bury the hatchet and toast their success, an air of awkwardness still remained between the two men. Garraway had assisted with a case Matthews had been working on which strongly hinted of something paranormal, but nothing had come of it and the two men became distant. They had become so distant that they went out of their way to avoid one another when both in Kenneth Steele House, which housed the incident rooms where Matthews spent most of his time and the training rooms where Garraway spent most of his.

Joan, his wife, had left him during the heady days of the Walker case. She couldn’t tolerate his mood swings, depression nor his drinking. She felt guilty about abandoning him to deal with his crippling arthritis alone, but because of her own state of mental health she had no choice.

Markland was hopeful that things would soon be different. The evening’s date with her at Bottelinos was the first along the path of reconciliation. He was fitter and stronger, both mentally and physically, than he’d been for a long time, and he was hopeful that he and Joan would get back together and carry on from when things between them had been better.

He’d found retirement to be a long haul. It was a drawn out and lonely battle with depression and alcoholism, but was grateful he’d come out of the other side relatively unscathed. At night his dreams were regularly peppered with what had happened on the hill and the events leading up to the death of Liz.

Both Maria and Campbell, Christopher’s parents, had been supportive and remained close friends of Markland, as had Terry Mason, Liz’s father.

Markland flicked on the television and surfed the channels. There was nothing worth watching. There were more channels than ever before, but to him there was nothing of interest. It was all talent shows, ‘fly on the wall’ documentaries, programmes about fat people wanting to be thin and thin people wanting to be fatter. He preferred the days when there were only five channels. He checked the time and decided it was time for bed.

He trudged into the hall and was about to climb the stairs when he saw the unopened post by the front door. He stooped down and scooped up four envelopes. The first two were utility bills, which he flung on the shelf, the third was franked and had a return address of Compton Wells School in Bristol. He ripped open the envelope and scanned the paragraphs looking for the words he hoped to see. A smile spread across his face as he read the news he had been waiting for. He’d been offered a part-time job as an Attendance Improvement Officer at the school. He was definitely fitter and stronger than he’d been in years, in fact he was better in mind, body and spirit since the whole Ben Walker episode entered his life way back in the autumn of two thousand and nine, and now he was ready to re-enter the world of employment. Markland didn’t apply for the job because he needed money, the police pension took care of things nicely, but he viewed it as a step in the right direction to keep his mental state of health intact.

He folded the letter, replaced it in the envelope and turned his attention to the fourth letter. It was a white DL envelope sealed with sticky tape. Written on the front in felt pen was one word.

Markland

He frowned and held it to the ceiling light, as if doing so would offer further clues to what was inside. He slid his finger under the flap and opened the envelope. Inside was a piece of lined notepaper which was folded. He unfolded it and gazed at what was written.

Meet me at the hill in Badock’s Wood tomorrow morning at 10.

I need your help.

Markland gripped the note. Just thinking of returning to the Woods made him unsettled. He read the note again, as if reading it for a second time would reveal something he hadn’t seen the first time around.

What the hell?

After the Walker case Markland had been stopped in the street countless times by those who’d recognised him after seeing him on television news reports. They’d been keen to shake his hand and a few had wanted to share with him stories of paranormal things which had happened in their lives. They had wanted to know what he thought and whether he could offer an explanation. It was as if he became an expert in all things supernatural. But this was the first time he’d received a request from somebody asking for help.

The unsettling feeling had turned to one of fear. Fear of doing something that he swore he would never do again. He had vowed that he would never set foot in Badock’s Wood, let alone return to the hill where the Ben Walker murder case had begun. He put the notepaper back in the envelope and placed it next to the unopened bills.

He prepared for bed and closed the bedroom curtains. Had he not been so tired he may have noticed the man standing beneath the yellow glow of the street lamp, looking up at Markland’s bedroom window.

Chapter 2

Two weeks earlier

17th September

2.59 a.m.

James was having another nightmare. In his vivid dream the same thing was happening as it had done for the past two nights.

It started with him staring at his reflection in the mirror in the hallway of the familiar house. In the dream he always wore a long black coat, black trousers, black shoes and a black hat with a white band around it. His face was tired and lined for a man of twenty-nine. In his reflection his face looked the same, but at the same time it seemed very different, and he could never fathom out what was different about it.

Each nightmare was the same. He had full control over everything he did, but didn’t understand why he would do such things.

He glanced at the wall clock. It was three a.m. again. It was always three a.m. The second hand nudged twelve, as it had done in the previous nightmares. Other than the ticking of the clock and the quiet hum of the fridge-freezer in the kitchen, everything was silent. Even his footsteps made no sound.

He reached into the pocket of the coat and pulled out a reel of heavy duty black duct tape. He ripped off a six-inch length and gagged his mouth. Again and again for the past two nights he’d gagged his mouth to be sure he couldn’t say a word. From the other pocket he removed a pair of plastic gloves and put them on. He stood at the bottom of the stairs and looked up to the landing.

Next, he was standing outside a bedroom door. He glanced down the stairs. He had no recollection of climbing them. He never did. It was always the same. One minute he was in the hallway and the next he was on the landing outside one of the two bedrooms.

He pushed open the other bedroom door behind which was an empty and neatly made bed. The next part of the dream was what he hated the most. He was certain that if he wanted he could stop it there and then and wake up in his bed, but he never did. He always felt compelled to carry on.

The landing was dimly lit by diffused light from the hallway downstairs. He crept back to the first bedroom and pushed down on the door handle, and with the side of his arm he put his weight against the door. Slowly, it opened. James tried hard not to make it creak, but it always did. He made out the form of a man lying in bed. As always, the creak of the bedroom door caused the man to shift his position. James watched him stretch and yawn. The bedroom was dimmer than the hallway, but James could always make out what was happening. And then, the man would open his eyes, stare at him and sit bolt upright. James would grab a pillow from the floor, move towards the man and smother him until he was dead. This is where the nightmare ended and when James would wake up in his bed soaked in sweat, while his wife slept beside him. But tonight, things would be different, when this nightmare ended, a new one would be begin. A new nightmare that would prove to be very, very real.

Chapter 3

Four Hours Earlier

16th September

10.59p.m.

Hanrahan Trafford was in a bad way. He was worried sick and anxious beyond belief. His mind was frazzled and his stomach knotted.

Han had gone to bed just before eleven, and although his mind was stressed, he was asleep within minutes. For the first few hours he dreamt of nothing that he would remember. But just after three a.m. he experienced the same nightmare he’d had for the past two nights.

In the nightmare he’d heard the sound of a creaking door. He opened his eyes and just like the past couple of nights saw a form of a figure standing in his doorway. His bedroom door was open, creating a silhouette of the figure against the dim light from beyond the bedroom. The figure bent forward and picked up a pillow which lay on the floor beside Han’s bed. The next piece of the nightmare always seemed so real. Han knew what would happen next. The shady figure would push the pillow hard down on Han’s face. Every time, Han would experience a very real feeling of suffocation. The power of the figure pushing down upon him was palpable. Han would flail and struggle, whilst the figure in the hat thrust down on him. When the nightmare was over he would sit up in bed shaking and sweating. The experience seemed so real that the second time he’d experienced it he wondered whether he’d actually been killed. Had the figure in his nightmare really been an intruder? Had Han woken up dead? Then after a few moments he would come to his senses and realise that it was nothing other than a nightmare that seemed incredibly real.

But this time the nightmare was different. He watched the dark figure move towards him gripping the pillow, and Han sat bolt upright and was more afraid than ever. He couldn’t make out the face, but something about the figure seemed familiar. Even though he was asleep and had conjured the situation from his subconscious, Han had a disturbing sense that he wasn’t going to wake up this time. The figure moved towards him with the pillow, and Han pulled back the duvet and jumped out of bed. Han stood on one side of the bed and the figure on the other. For a few seconds neither of them moved. They stared at one another from either side of the bed. Han backed towards the window and the figure dropped the pillow and then, in an Olympian style, vaulted the bed. Han scurried the length of the bed to the door and headed for the landing. The figure moved at an unbelievable pace and as Han stepped out to the landing he felt a hand on his shoulder which yanked him back into the bedroom. He sensed the touch of a plastic glove against his skin as the figure gripped his shoulder. Han fell backwards and his left hand instinctively rose and caught the edge of the dimmer switch on the wall near the door frame. He nudged it enough to turn the switch for the ceiling light to come on and radiate a little light. The room became brighter and Han felt the figure’s grip on his shoulder lessen. The light from the ceiling had taken the dark figure by surprise. Han seized the opportunity, spun around and punched the shady figure square between the eyes. Even though the room was a little lighter, he couldn’t make out enough facial features to see what the figure looked like, but saw the length of black duct tape over his mouth. The figure stepped back and Han threw another punch. The figure fell and landed on his back onto the bed.

And then everything changed.

The nightmare ended and Han sat up. He was clammy and shaking. He saw the ceiling light emanated a little glow. It took a few seconds to register that something heavy lay across his legs. He made out the form of something lying sideways across the bed. Whatever it was didn’t stand out well against his navy blue duvet. He was tired and confused. He squinted his eyes as they adjusted to the light. The radio alarm beside his bed told him it was just after three. He turned his attention back to the bed, clasped one hand over his mouth and let out an audible gasp when he saw what it was.

Shit! he whispered and stared at a man lying sideways across his bed. Han sat still and tried to contain his shaking body, but couldn’t. He was too frightened. His muddled brain tried to compute what was going on. He recalled the nightmare with the man in his room and remembered how it ended. He felt a dull throb across the knuckles of his right hand. He took his left hand away from his mouth and rubbed the back of his right. It was as if he’d punched a hole through a wall.

What’s happening? thought Han.

He was certain that what had happened had been nothing but a dream. The same dream he’d had the night before and the night before that.

He wasn’t sure if the man was dead, unconscious or asleep. Either way, Han was petrified. After what seemed an age, he attempted to move his legs from beneath the man and was mindful not to disturb him. He carefully slid one leg from under the stranger but stopped when he heard him groan. Han remained still and evaluated the situation. The man wasn’t dead, so was either asleep, or unconscious. Whichever of the two Han knew he mustn’t wake the intruder. He let out a huge gasp of air. He hadn’t noticed he’d been holding his breath. The intruder lay still. Han continued to pull one leg from beneath the slumped body and this time the intruder remained silent. With one leg free, he found it easier to remove the other. He climbed out of bed and stared at the man who lay face down on the duvet. He was sure it was same man he’d dreamt of. He saw the brimmed hat which was bordered with a white band. It was the same style Al Capone would have worn. Han shuddered as he considered what to do next. He darted out of the bedroom, tiptoed down the stairs and into the utility room. His heart was beating fast, pumping adrenalin charged blood through his veins. He flicked on the light and shuffled through drawers trying to find something with which he could secure the intruder. He found a pair of rugby socks in the washing basket which belonged to his son. He grabbed them and cautiously went back upstairs to his bedroom. He peeped around the door and was relieved to see the intruder hadn’t moved. Within minutes Han had securely tied the man’s feet and hands.

He slumped to the floor with his back against the bedroom wall and thought through what had just happened. He had no doubt that he’d definitely experienced a nightmare, and it was pretty much the same one he’d had twice before. The creaking of the bedroom door, the dark figure in his room and the struggle as the stranger suffocated him with the pillow. Tonight’s version had started exactly the same, but had ended up so differently.

Perhaps this is part of the nightmare, what if I’m still dreaming? thought Han.

He darted to the bathroom and splashed cold water over his face.

I’m not dreaming this time, he whispered.

He had to call the police. There was an intruder in the house and he needed help. He scurried downstairs to the lounge and picked up his cordless phone.

Shit, he cursed when he saw the thing was out of power. He placed it on the charger and thought about what to do next. He returned to the bedroom and stared at the stranger lying unevenly on the duvet. Han’s heartbeat settled and he was a little calmer. He was sure that when the intruder awoke he wouldn’t be a threat. His legs were bound so he couldn’t walk and his wrists where so tightly secured he wouldn’t be able to hit out.

Despite being a little calmer Han was more confused than ever. It was if he’d punched the man out of a nightmare and into reality. He turned the dimmer switch a little higher and checked his knuckles on the hand with which he’d punched the man in his dream. They were red and swollen. Han really had hit out at someone or something.

His thoughts were interrupted by the intruder who stirred.

Shit, thought Han. Although the man was secured, Han was taking no chances. He ran to his son’s empty room, grabbed his baseball bat from the corner and returned with it raised above his head.

The intruder groaned and fidgeted. Han took a step closer and tightened his grip on the handle of the bat. The intruder rolled onto his back and in doing so caused the brimmed hat to dip over his brow, partially obscuring his face. Han looked twice, when he saw the strip of black