The Forsaken Village

A swirling vortex materialized in the centre of an eerily abandoned village. The night was thick with mist, shrouding the village in an unsettling gloom. Dim moonlight flickered across deserted streets where every house stood frozen in time. Wooden shutters were left ajar, and doors hung slightly open, as though the villagers had abruptly fled, leaving their lives behind.

The air was unnervingly silent except for the distant rustle of leaves and the occasional creak of old, abandoned structures. In the stillness, the remnants of daily life—unattended market stalls, empty tables set for meals that would never be eaten—added to the village’s spectral quality.

Ms Marlowe emerged from the portal with confidence and excitement, wrapping her silk scarf just a little tighter about her neck. Always come prepared. Her five students stumbled out in awe and trepidation. Jake was still highly skeptical, but the sudden appearance in a new location was enough to dispel those ideas.

Emma’s mouth fell open. “Oh ducks! The seventeenth century,” she whispered, awestruck. “Look at the joinery on those beams, the hand-hewn stone. It’s—it's real. We’re really—”

“Back in time?” Ben cut in, his grin stretched too wide. He kicked at a rotten cabbage rolling across the lane, “Brilliant. And here I was hoping we’d end up at a beach with some bangin waves."

"Bull shit! You've never surfed a day in ya life."

"I am an actor," he said, slapping Jake playfully on the back. "I'm open to all new experiences."

"One go around of Romeo, a dabble in cross-dressing, and a smidge of Puck does not make you an actor."

"Oh! Dear friend! You remembered!" He hugged him before Jake pushed him away.

"You nutter! Get off me!" Jake shoved his hands in his pockets, feeling the cold seep back in after Ben's diversion, “Should we really be here? We might be dippin our toes into something best left to the past.”

“I will keep you safe," their teacher proclaimed. "I do have my reputation to maintain."

“This is wicked!” Ben exclaimed. "Spooky even. Right up my alley."

Lily lingered behind the others, sketchpad out almost without thinking. Her pencil scratched fast as her eyes darted from shutter to shutter, door to door. The stillness unsettled her, “Where… where is everyone?”

That was when she heard a faint giggle of a child. She turned around to find nothing there. The others seemed oblivious, so the girl said nothing. It was probably just her imagination.

Ms. Marlowe, by contrast, was perfectly composed, her dark coat catching the moonlight. Her scarf seemed to sparkle in the night. She slipped a weatherworn book from a pocket in the folds of her jacket—the Journal of Curiosities—and opened to a bookmarked page.

“Hallow’s End,” she said, her voice low but clear. “A village recorded in parish rolls up until 1627. Then nothing. The people gone, the church ransacked, the fields abandoned. No plague, no fire, no war — only whispers of a ‘cleansing,’ a word used too often in the name of faith.” She looked up at the crooked cottages, “I’ve always wanted to know what happened.”

Emma edged closer, trying to read the script over Marlowe’s shoulder, “So you’ve been collecting mysteries?”

Ms Marlowe’s lips curved faintly, though whether it was amusement or warning, none of them could tell, “The Journal is a ledger of questions. Some are mine. Some are others.” She gazed around her, studying the village, “And this is the night when it happened, when everyone disappeared.”

Jake eyed the empty street, cautiously, “Yeah, and what about the whole time machine bit? Seems like a detail you skipped.”

Their teacher closed the Journal and slipped it back into her pocket. She tapped the strange brass device strapped to her wrist—a miniature twin of the classroom clock, its hands ticking in odd rhythms. And the portal closed.

“Imagine a bridge spun from time itself,” Ms Marlowe said. “I give it a place, a year, a heartbeat, and it connects one world to another. But such bridges don’t hold forever — they fade, they fall apart. That’s why I close it quickly.”

Sam frowned, “A bridge to religious wars?”

“Or the first ever performance of The Beatles.”

"The who?"

"If you would prefer," Ms Marlowe smirked. These children were so ignorant. She would show them who the Beatles were one day. And even The Who for comparison. Her gaze swept the crooked church spire, its shadow cutting through the mist. “We’re standing in a time when faith could save — or consume,” she said. “After the Reformation, people were terrified of the wrong kind of belief. Some clung to the old saints; others met secretly in woods to speak of compassion and nature. To the fearful, it all looked like witchcraft.” She turned back to the group, “They called it a cleansing — a holy purge of anything that didn’t fit their vision of God. And it wasn’t just pagans or heretics who vanished. It was anyone who dared to think differently.”

Jake gave a low laugh, but he wasn’t amused, “Still happens in our time. People use faith to decide who doesn’t belong. Say it’s about purity, or family, or tradition. But it’s just fear dressed up as righteousness."

Ms Marlowe turned to him, “Never lose faith." She tapped the side of her nose, knowingly, "Things will change.” The glint in her eyes, "I've seen it!"

Jake looked at her, suddenly uneasy — because he believed her. Something in her eyes said she wasn’t guessing; she knew. Not just about the past, but about the future too — more than she was willing to admit.

Ben galloped over to the stone well, pulling himself up onto the edge, “Hellooo! Avon calling! Is anyone home?”

Ms Marlowe marched over to him, “Mr Curtis, the villagers may be gone, but there is still the manor house…most likely with guards. So let’s not draw any attention now, get down and stay smart.”

Ben took her hand, returning to the cobbled street, “I was just mucking around.”

“I’m serious about the dangers…we don’t know what awaits us here.”

The moon slid behind a cloud, throwing the cottages into deeper shadow. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell tolled once, though its steeple leaned broken against the sky.

Ms Marlowe glanced toward the rise where the silhouette of a manor house loomed, black against the stars. A single window flickered with light, “The manor,” she murmured. “If answers remain, they’ll be there.” She turned back to the five, her eyes sharper than the moonlight. “Stay in the square. Explore if you must, but do not wander far from town. Just beware that whatever emptied this place may not welcome intruders.”

And with that, she wrapped her dislodged scarf about her neck once more and strode up the lane toward the manor.

The students stood in silence, mist curling around their ankles.

Ben grinned too wide, “Relax, kids! She was probably being over-cautious, like all teachers. A few surly guards! It’s nothing! I’ve faced worse at home.”

The group grew sombre. They all knew Ben had it rough — his mum was gone, and the family had unravelled soon after. What they didn’t know was how deep the cracks ran, or how hard he worked to keep them hidden. Ben carried his pain the way he carried everything else — with a joke, a grin, and his chest held tight, so no one could see it hurt.

Suddenly, there came a faint giggle again. Childlike. Echoing. This time, everyone froze. Lily’s pencil slipped in her hand. Emma’s breath hitched. Sam squinted into the shadows. Jake cursed softly, his hands curling firmly into fists, ready to defend. Ben’s grin faltered.

The alley was empty. Only a small wooden doll lay in the dirt, one arm snapped clean off. And that was when the shutters of the nearest cottage creaked.

Lily looked up just in time to see the pale face of a cute boy vanish from the window. She let out a squeal of alarm, “I don’t think the village is as empty as it should be.”

“Okay,” Jake muttered, placing out a protective arm, stepping in front of the group, “I vote we all stay right here until Marlowe comes back. No wandering, no exploring, no—”

But Emma was already inching toward the crooked lane that led away from the square. Her face was pale, but her eyes were alive with the thrill of it, “Look, ducks! There must be something left behind, something that explains what happened. We won’t find out standing around looking at ourselves.”

Lily hesitated, glancing between Emma and the others. She stuffed her sketch pad into her back pack, and stowed the pencil in her top pocket. Then, with a deep breath, and stepped forward, “I’ll go with Em. Safety in numbers.”

Emma gave her a grateful smile, “We’ll just look. Won’t go far.”

Jake scoffed, “Brilliant. And the two of you get eaten by plague zombies while the rest of us sit here like idiots.”

Sam thumped him on the arm, “Relax, Em isn’t a half-wit. She knows how to look after herself.”

“She does have an impressive set of lungs!” Ben smiled mischievously, “Who knew an escaping frog could cause her to impersonate Dame Nellie Melba.”

Emma scowled at him, “I didn’t realise you were so protective of the little guys.”

“I was just trying to get out of that science quiz. It worked too…for a little while.”

Emma screwed her nose up at him before venturing off. Lily followed the other girl into the narrow lane. She stopped spotting some wild flowers growing through the cracks.

She smiled. The wildflowers had forced their way through stone and shadow, blooming without permission, reaching for the light simply because they could. They reminded her of herself — learning, at last, to do the same.

Lily continued after her friend, feeling not as scared as before. She could do this just as bravely.

**********

The moonlight pooled in broken patches, the shadows between houses stretching long and deep. The mist thickened as they moved further, muffling their footsteps.

Emma whispered, “Look—see those marks in the dirt? Horses came through here...they're quite fresh." Em smiled, shaking her head, "Here I go again. Nancy Drewing!"

“They lead this way,” Lily said, pointing toward the slope beyond the cottages.

At the top of the rise, a fence leaned crookedly, its posts split and rotting. Beyond it, a thick woodland blocked out the landscape. The hoof prints in the earth continue down there. They looked at each other, shrugged, reminded of Ms Marlowe's instructions not to leave the town, but their curiosity outweighed possible dangers.

Em took her hand, seeming to draw courage from each other before setting off down the slope and over the broken fence, following the hooves towards the bushland. They ventured into the woods, parting trees and bushes, coming across a graveyard.

A lantern guttering in the mist, a man was on his knees beside an open grave. His hands clawed at the dirt as he muttered to himself, words tumbling together. His face was gaunt, his clothes filthy, his eyes rolling wildly as though he saw things crawling just beyond the lantern light. He seemed to be trying to fill in an open grave.

“We shouldn’t have dug… we shouldn’t… they’re watching… always watching…”

Emma and Lily locked eyes. This wasn’t just an abandoned village. Something had been disturbed. There were quite a few open graves, dirt mounds collecting beside each one. Their instincts were right to follow the tracks.

*********

The square was deathly quiet after the girls slipped away. Jake kicked at a broken doll in the mud, trying not to let the silence crawl into his bones.

“Well, this is dead boring,” Ben muttered, though his voice cracked.

"Better to be safe than a whole lotta sorry later," Jake interjected.

"Jake! I love ya to death, you're one of my best mates, but you can be a boring first date," Sam smirked. Jake scowled at him. "We're standing in the middle of a 16th-century village. We should be exploring."

"Sammie boys right!" Ben leaned against the splintered doorframe of the tavern, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, “Look! I'm gonna go stir crazy if we stay put any longer. Where's ya kahunas!"

"Safely in my jocks where I want them to stay," Jake rolled his eyes, “Shit! Okay! Come on then! If someone fucks you up…don’t blame me.”

"Let's try the pub," Sam suggested, recognizing the trademark tavern of the period. "Just don't tell my mum! She'll have me cleaning the lino floor with a dishcloth for two weeks. She hates pubs...ever since my gran preferred a bar stool and whiskey to preparing a home-cooked meal for her kiddies. No shade. Just how it was for her."

Ben pushed open the tavern door. It creaked, releasing a gust of air so cold it stung their throats. The smell of sour ale and mildew lingered inside. Wooden benches lay overturned; tankards were scattered across the dirt floor.

The tavern was dark, but shafts of moonlight broke through holes in the window panes. Dust floated in the beams from a torch, swirling like pale fingers. Sam had come prepared.

“Creepy pub crawl, anyone?” Ben grinned, checking the barrel of grog on the bar, “I can use some self-medication right now.” He grabbed an old tankard and turned the nozzle; amber liquid flowed out. He took a swig. His face curling up, “Oh, what mortal fools these be! To saviour such a noxious evil as this brew.” He screwed up his face, pushing the tankard away from him, “Those beer ads are dead wrong! That taste does not make me want to wrestle a crocodile to prove I'm a man.”

Jake froze, his gaze caught by the cracked mirror behind the bar— an old gilt frame, reflecting the faint light. In its glass stood a figure. The same boy that Lily had briefly seen.

A young man in seventeenth-century clothes, fair-haired, strong-jawed, with eyes bright and curious. He met Jake’s gaze through the mirror and gave the smallest, saddest smile. For a heartbeat, Jake forgot the cold. He forgot to breathe. He was such a hottie.

“Jake?” Ben’s voice was small. “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing special!” He muttered wistfully. The guy was totally his type.

And then they heard it. A chair scraping. All three froze. Another scrape, slow, deliberate. From the far end of the tavern, where the light didn’t reach.

“Wind,” Jake whispered, though his voice shook.

“Not wind,” Ben said flatly. His eyes fixed on the gloom.

Shapes shifted in the dark. First, just shadows, then the outline of a man sitting at a table, hunched over a tankard. Another beside him. Then another. Pale faces turning, eye sockets hollow, mouths slack.

The sound came again—the screech of wood on stone—as the nearest ghostly figure pushed back its chair and stood.

"Shit fuckity Shit," Sam swore under his breath, backing toward the door. “Yeah, no, I’m out.”

The boys stumbled out into the square, but the air outside was no safer. Mist rolled heavier now, and in it moved shapes—a couple of villagers began drifting between houses, heads bent, eyes blank. Their lips moved as one, whispering in silence.

Jake’s bravado shattered, “Nope. No. Absolutely not.” He raised his fists ready to fight, “One touch and I’ll start swinging.”

“They're not real!” Sam muttered, “Their forms are intangible.” He pointed, “Just look, mate! Their lower limbs disappear into nothing.”

Jake lowered his fists at the absence of feet. Yet he still could hear their footsteps.

The three pressed against the wall of the tavern, hearts pounding, as one of the apparitions glided close. Its face passed within inches of Jake’s, cold as ice, its hollow eyes fixing on him. For a moment, he swore he felt his soul tugged loose, drifting toward those empty sockets.

When the ghost passed by, Jake said, “We need to move! Now!”

He pushed his two friends ahead of him, away from the spectrals. They bolted down an alley, the whispers rising into a chorus behind them.

Sam halted, “There! The church! Its sanctity might mess with the ghosts.”

Sam yanked open the door of a church and dragged them inside. The air stank of mold and charred wood. The altar had been damaged. The walls etched with strange marks—scratches that looked like prayers turned to curses.

On the broken altar, a single candle fluttered into existence, though no one had lit the wick. The three boys looked on. Jake was apprehensive, Sam excited, and Ben was pacing.

*********

The man in the clearing rocked back and forth, his lantern throwing wild shadows across the leaning stones. His muttering grew louder, broken words spilling into the night. Mist laced the undergrowth, and a pale, chalky dust coated the ground.

“They said leave them lie… old bones best left to rot… but gold, yes, there was gold in the earth, teeth and rings, plenty for the taking…” His voice cracked into a laugh, then collapsed into sobbing. “But we broke the circle…they came… faces in the mist… whispering, whispering, whispering…”

Emma’s eyes were wide, her breath clouding in the cold air. She crouched lower, clutching Lily’s sleeve, “Ducks! He’s a grave robber,” she whispered. “He dug them up.”

Lily swallowed hard, staring at the disturbed mound of soil beside the man. The coffin lid jutted from the earth like a splintered rib, “That explains the smell....the decay.”

“Mmm! Yeah! But that isn’t the only smell,” Emma said, crouching, leaning forward to examine some chalk dust that was nearby. She rubbed a finger over the powder and lifted it to her nose. The dust stung faintly. “Quick lime,” she murmured, half to herself.

“Quick what?”

“Used to cover the dead. Helps them decay faster. But sometimes it was meant to purify them, keep them from… wandering.” Emma grabbed her arm. “Ducks! Maybe it’s time we went back….we may have just stepped into something we shouldn’t”

But before they could move, voices rose from deeper in the woods — rough, angry, more men approaching.

“Gerrit, stop your whining and dig! The ground’s not finished with us yet.”

Lily and Emma ducked lower, hearts hammering. Shapes moved through the trees — more grave robbers, filthy and armed with shovels, stumbling toward the clearing. They had returned to their camp for more tools.

The muttering man scrambled up, pointing wildly into the darkness. “They’re here! The shadows, the dead, they’ll tear us apart—”

The leader, Wallace, mean and angry faced, cuffed him hard across the jaw, sending him sprawling. “Enough of your drunken nonsense. Keep digging.”

Emma clapped a hand over her mouth to stop her gasp. Lily gripped her arm firmly.

**********

The fog deepened as Ms. Marlowe approached the manor, its towers rising like the ribs of a dead cathedral. The air was sharp with cold and silence — too still, too complete. Even the wind seemed to hesitate here.

The iron gates groaned open at her touch. She stepped through, boots crunching over gravel long untrodden.

Inside, the manor smelled of wax and damp parchment. Candles guttered along the corridor, their light smearing across portraits of the Blackwood line — each ancestor rendered in proud, oil-dark dignity.

Ms. Marlowe stopped before two paintings hung side by side: a kindly man with gentle eyes and a smile faintly weary, and next to him, a younger man with the same bone structure but a harder gaze — the mouth set, the eyes fanatical.

A small brass plate read:
Baron Alaric Blackwood, Defender of the Common Faith, 1654.
Baron Lucien Blackwood, His Son and Successor, 1672.

She tilted her head. “Kindness to cruelty in a single generation,” she murmured. “A tragedy as old as faith itself.”

A guttural voice drifted from the shadows, “Faith needs strength, not kindness.”

Marlowe turned.

A man emerged from the gloom, tall and angular, dressed in black with a silver crucifix at his throat. His eyes burned — the kind of eyes that could make an army kneel or a family hide. He regarded her with the polite disdain of a cat watching a mouse.

“You trespass,” he said. “This is consecrated ground.”

“Curiosity isn’t trespass,” Marlowe replied evenly. “Your village lies silent — its people gone. Surely a man of faith would not fear questions about it?”

He smiled thinly, “Faith does not need questions, only obedience. My father forgot that.”

“You mean he allowed people to live as they pleased,” she said. “To practice their faith in peace.”

“Peace?” The baron’s voice sharpened. “Their ‘peace’ was heresy! Pagan rites disguised as prayer. They worshipped stones and stars and called it devotion. My father tolerated their sickness. I had to cleanse it.” He moved closer, the candlelight catching his face — the angular cheekbones, the sheen of sweat at his temple, “They refused baptism. They mocked the Church. They poisoned others with their ways.”

“So you slaughtered them,” Marlowe said, her tone low but cutting.

Lucien’s hand tightened on his cane, “I purified them. I saved their souls.”

She took a small step toward him, “That isn’t salvation, Baron. That’s fear in a priest’s clothing.”

His jaw trembled, “You speak like my father — weak, sentimental. He’d have doomed us all with his softness. I prayed for him to see reason. When he did not…” His gaze flicked briefly upward, as if toward the heavens, then away. “God took him.”

Marlowe’s brow arched, “How convenient.”

Lucien’s face contorted — half fury, half guilt. He struck the floor with his cane, “You dare mock me in my own house?”

“I dare challenge madness anywhere, any time, ” she said calmly. "Mad men are what lead me to my current station in time."

“Guards! Come to me!” The man bellowed. Guards appeared behind Ms Marlowe. His eyes glittered. “Who are you?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“We shall see! All in good time.” Lucien nodded towards the guards, “Throw the harpy into the cells. We’ll see how long it takes her to talk…I’ve heard the rats are quite ravenous of late.”

The guards lunged forward, grabbing her arms. They hauled her away, kicking and screaming. The baron sneered wickedly after her.

**********

Sam pressed his back to the door, breathing hard. “I haven’t been this excited since I stole my first dirty magazine.”

“Razzle!” Jake hissed, pacing.

‘Nah! Men’s Health!”

Sam didn’t comment. His eyes were locked on the altar, where the impossible flame burned, steady and golden, casting long, warping shadows across the ruined pews. The carvings on the walls seemed to writhe in the light—snatches of words in Latin, crossed out, rewritten, spirals of symbols gouged deep into stones.

“That candle is impossible…no dripping wax. Something has brought it to life.”

The whispers thickened, no longer outside but within the church. Faces began to emerge in the gloom, hovering above the pews—villagers, their mouths open, sound pouring out of them though no breath passed their lips.

Sam’s knuckles whitened on the door handle, “Shit! Not so safe after all.”

The boys froze as one of the apparitions drifted closer, a woman with hollow eyes and a child clutched to her chest. Her voice hissed inside their skulls, not their ears.

“Why did you wake us?”

Jake shook his head violently, “Fuck! We didn’t! We didn’t do anything!”

The woman reached for him, her fingers like mist, yet when they brushed his cheek, a burning cold tore through his skin. Jake yelped and stumbled back, clutching his face.

Sam grabbed him, steadying him, “Stop panicking. It won’t help.” He sighed, “But I think I may know something to help. I know it is a big reach but…it is better than doing nothing.”

The other ghosts circled, their whispers rising into a single deafening chant. The floating flame on the altar flared brighter, crackling.

Sam took a step back, his mind racing. “I’ve heard that spirits disturbing the living have just lost their way. They need reminding they're no longer living and need to rest.” Sam crouched, scooped a handful of the church’s dirt, and let it run through his fingers. “Back to soil, back to sky,” he whispered — words not from a book but remembered from his pop’s rich voice. Then louder: “Back to the dreaming, back to rest.” He repeated the same ritual until the whispering faltered. The flame on the altar guttered.

The apparitions froze, their hollow eyes turning blank, empty. One by one, they dissolved into mist, leaving only silence and the smell of smoke.

“So you did! Vanquished the ghosts!” Ben slapped his back with relief.

“Just here! The others are not present to hear my words.” Sam shrugged his shoulders, “ I guess I’m not all science and logic. Sometimes I can be spiritual too. I’m a deeply faceted brainiac.”

The boys stood trembling in the wreck of the church, their breath harsh and uneven. They could just hear the whispering from outside.

*********

The bolt slammed home with a screech of iron. The guards retreated, steady at first, then fading into the upper corridors like a sermon dissolving into echo.

Ms. Marlowe stood still, eyes adjusting to the dim. She removed a pencil-thin torch from the pocket inside her coat. The light cast a sickly amber glow across the stone walls. The air was thick — old, wet, and faintly alive.

Something scurried across her boot. She froze.

Then came the squeak — quick, sharp, multiplied. A dozen black shapes darted through the straw at the far corner, glinting in the lantern light, “Ah,” she murmured. “The welcoming committee.” The smell of rot thickened. She backed toward the wall, pulling her coat tighter. The rats were bold — perhaps hungry. One clambered up a jut of stone near her knee and hissed, showing yellow teeth, “Not tonight, my dears.”

She glanced around the room. There were shards of crockery in the corner — old food bowls from past prisoners. She picked one up, still crusted with something unidentifiable, and flung it toward the opposite wall. The rats scattered in a black ripple, hissing and squealing, their claws clicking like rain.

It bought her seconds. She tore a strip of fabric from her sleeve, wound it tightly around a sliver of wood, and dipped it into the refuse fat in another broken bowl. She got a box of matches from her coat and set fire to her torn fabric, now coated with fat. She waved the makeshift burning torch at the rats. They shrieked, retreating into cracks and holes. Their eyes flashed once, then vanished.

She suddenly squinted in the light, studying one of the walls. One corner looked different — a narrow seam between stones, finer than mortar. She pressed a hand to it. Air seeped through, faint but cool. Her pulse quickened. “Well, well. Someone prepared for a revolt.”

By now, a rat dared to approach. She swatted the vermin away with her torch; the creature's singed hide smoked, but it wouldn’t deter them for long.

Ms Marlowe turned back to the wall. She traced the seam upward. Halfway along, she found a loose stone, its edge worn smooth. A catch, or perhaps a lever. She tried pressing — nothing. She tried again, twisting this time, and felt a soft click.

The wall shuddered. Dust rained down, and a small section of masonry swung inward, revealing a black slit of passage.

A low squeal came from behind her — they were gaining in mass. She threw the burning torch into the middle of them. The rats shrieked and squealed.

She grabbed the tiny torch, ducked into the narrow opening, and pulled the hidden door shut behind her. The sound of the rats scratching at the stone was replaced by the dripping of water and the soft thud of her own heartbeat having escaped the vermin.

**********

The robber on his knees didn’t notice Emma and Lily at first, but the men stomping up the track did.

“Oi!” Barton barked, lantern swinging. His eyes narrowed. “What’ve we here?”

Emma grabbed Lily’s arm, but before they could run, grimy hands snatched at their sleeves, dragging them out into the clearing. Lily cried out, not letting go of her friend.

“Two little night-birds, sneakin’ about,” Wallace sneered, shoving them toward the half-mad grave robber who still rocked on his knees. “Come to spy on us, have ye?”

Emma straightened, though her knees trembled, “We—we weren’t spying. We were just—”

“Quiet, boy!” Barton jabbed a spade into the dirt beside her foot, making her jump. “These bones are worth more than either of you.”

Gerrit began laughing and sobbing in turns, “The shadows walk! I speak the truth! They walk of the dead.”

The others cursed and kicked at him, but Emma seized the moment, “He’s right,” she blurted. “The spirits won’t rest now you’ve disturbed them. You’re cursed as long as you keep digging.”

The men jeered, though unease flickered in their eyes. One other spat into the dirt. “Cursed or not. Rings, teeth, pendants—doesn’t matter. The dead don’t need it. We does.”

"They'll never let you take their belongings. You're doomed... along with the village."

Wallace snarled, “You’ll be joining the bones soon enough if you don’t hold your tongue.” He shoved them toward the lip of an open grave, yawning wide in the lanternlight, “Drop ‘em in, shut ‘em up.”

Barton and the other one stepped forward, rough hands reaching.

Emma’s mind raced. Then, glancing at Lily, she hissed, “When I say go, give them a push.”

As the grave robbers bent low, Emma stomped on Barton’s foot and shoved hard. Lily did the same, slamming her whole weight into the other one. The two men toppled, arms flailing, tumbling into the gaping grave. The rotten coffin splintered beneath them with a crack.

The lantern rocked, shadows lurching. Gerrit screamed, clutching his head, “They’re coming! The dead, they’re climbing!”

Ghostly visitations moved out of the trees. The whispering got louder. Wallace faltered.

Emma grabbed Lily by the hand, and they bolted into the trees. Branches whipping their faces, the sounds of shouting and panic fading behind them. The ghosts were hemming in the grave robbers, preventing them from chasing after the girls.

By the time the two girls reached the edge of the village, their lungs burned, but they were free.

*********

The tunnel stretched ahead, narrow and slanted. Mortar had flaked away in long veins, and thin webs shimmered across the low ceiling. She brushed them aside carefully, though the spiders—fat, glossy things—scurried irritably at her intrusion.

“Apologies, my dears,” she murmured. “But I’m on a tighter schedule than you.”

The floor beneath her boots groaned as she advanced. Every third step felt uncertain, as though the ground resented bearing weight after centuries of silence. She crouched and inspected one section — the flagstones had sunk, leaving a dark gap. When she leaned forward with the torch, she saw nothing but emptiness below: a narrow pit leading to the foundations of the house.

She sat back on her heels, looping her scarf around a stone sconce jutting from the wall. She tested it with a sharp tug, then used it to swing herself across. The scarf tore halfway through, but she landed with a thud on the opposite edge, coat hem catching dust.

“Well,” she muttered, straightening. “That’ll teach me to buy imitation silk sarves.”

As she continued, the tunnel widened briefly into a small chamber. Bones lay scattered across the floor, half-embedded in rubble — arm bones, ribs, and skulls bleached white by time. Some protruded from the walls themselves, entombed where the masonry had collapsed inward. One skeleton still clutched a rusted rosary; the beads had fused together with green corrosion.

Ms Marlowe paused, bowing her head slightly, “I suspect you built this place, or died trying to escape it. Either way, my thanks for the escape route.”

The passage continued downward, bending like a serpent. Her torch wavered across symbols scratched into the stone: crosses, half-finished prayers, the same repeated phrase — Forgive him.

A low rumble shuddered through the wall, followed by a small cascade of dust. She glanced upward, “Oh, do hold together a little longer.”

Cobwebs seemed to thicken as she advanced, a curtain of grey silk hanging across the passage. She brushed at them with her sleeve, grimacing as tiny spiders rained onto her coat, “My classroom is beginning to look remarkably inviting.”

The tunnel dipped again, narrowing until she had to crouch. A faint glimmer caught her eye — something metallic jutting from the wall. She brushed away dust and revealed a rusted lever, part of an old mechanism. Curious, she traced the conduit lines running from it — and froze.

Ahead, a section of the wall was fitted with small, hidden holes. A primitive defense trap, she guessed — one pull and crossbow bolts would have filled the corridor.

“Someone didn't want any followers.” She took a small screwdriver from her pocket, jammed it into the gear housing, and twisted until she heard the satisfying snap of metal giving way. “There. We’ll have no medieval theatrics tonight.”

Another thirty paces on, the air changed again — cooler now, fresher. The faint sound of trickling water echoed ahead. The corridor opened into a wide, vaulted chamber. Her lanternlight revealed a series of carved effigies lying in repose upon stone biers — the Blackwood ancestors.

She moved among them slowly. Each was marked with a name: Alaric Blackwood, his hands folded in serene prayer; beside him, Catherine of Alderfen, the Baron’s mother; and a dozen others long forgotten.

The air was still here, not hostile — a different kind of silence. Respectful. Watching.

Marlowe spoke softly, almost reverently. “So this is where decency went to rest.”

At the far wall, she found an alcove leading out of the chamber into a medieval chapel sealed behind a heavy iron gate.

Inside the chapel stood a small altar. Upon it, lay a stack of parchment scrolls tied with fraying ribbon. Candles were flickering with light, casting condemned shadows about the walls.

Curiosity stirred in her chest. She unlatched the gate with a pick lock. It creaked open reluctantly.

She unrolled the topmost scroll. The ink had faded to sepia, the handwriting narrow and tight — Lucien’s unmistakable hand.

These are the names of the unbaptised, the godless, the idolators who poisoned this valley. May their ashes purify the land, and their screams remind Heaven of my devotion.

Another scroll listed dates, marked Cleansed in red wax beside each entry. Names — dozens of them. Families. Children.

She felt her throat tighten, “My God… you cataloged your own atrocities like an accountant of sin.”

There were other documents too — church records, decrees signed under the seal of the local diocese, most stamped Approved. Lucien hadn’t acted alone. He’d been sanctioned.

At the bottom of the pile, she found a single sheet in a gentler hand — his father Alaric’s writing. The ink was darker, the words more fluid:

If this letter survives, know that I tried to stay his hand. The boy believes the fire of faith absolves cruelty. If God is just, He will spare this place when my line ends.

“This evil must be avenged,” The woman extracted a box of matches from her pocket. She wanted so badly to light a match. She wanted to burn this place to the ground, but stopped suddenly, “No! I mustn’t! The manor house will stand for another five hundred years. I can’t mess with the timelines.” She put away the matches, then folded the letter carefully and slipped it into her pocket beside the rosary, “I’ll see it remembered, Alaric,” she said softly. “I promise you that. You tried to be just."

Behind her, a faint groan of stone broke the stillness — not supernatural, but structural. Dust cascaded from the ceiling. Time was reminding her it still had claims here.

She turned, scanning the chamber one last time. A Christ-like figure seemed almost to glow in the light — serene, resigned, eternal.

“Was all this,” she murmured, “worth your devotion?”

The exit lay outside the arched doors of the chapel — a narrow staircase twisting downward. The steps were crumbling, each one threatening to give way.

Halfway down, a spider dropped from the ceiling onto her shoulder. She flicked it away with a faint wince. “Persistent little guardian, aren’t you?”

The passage at the bottom of the staircase led her through the rear of the manor house. No one had been in these parts for years. She came to a rear door with a corroded lock. She soon picked this lock, and open air greeted her.

Ms Marlowe stepped out onto a grassy slope behind the manor, breathing deeply. For a long moment, she stood, looking back at the manor silhouetted against the fog — its spires black, its windows like blind eyes. Then she turned her collar up, squared her shoulders, and began the descent toward her students.

*********

Emma and Lily stumbled out of the lane, gasping, clutching one another. The three boys were huddled together on the ground.

Jake was clutching his cheek as if something still burned there. Sam’s shirt was torn across the sleeve, though no blade had touched him. Ben’s jaw was set, but his hands shook faintly at his sides. They looked up as the girls approached.

For a moment, the five simply stared at one another. They didn’t need to speak—their haunted faces told enough.

Then Emma found her voice, “We saw grave robbers in the woods. They dug up the graves for gold and trinkets. That must be why the hauntings began.”

Lily whispered, “One of them said they’d woken something. You could see it in his face. He wasn’t lying.”

Ben let out a wild laugh that cracked at the edges. He stood up along with the other two boys, “Dead wicked! No wonder the dead villagers tried to eat our souls. They were disturbing their snoozing.”

The fog hadn’t lifted. The five moved into the middle of the square, hearts still racing, when a harsh shout split the air.

“There! Those little toads from the cemetery!”

Lantern light sliced through the mist. The grave robbers staggered out, wild-eyed and filthy, their shovels and picks glinting like crude weapons.

Emma froze, “They followed us.”

Ben’s grin faltered, “I wanna go home now.”

Wallace jabbed a spade toward them, “You thought you could make fools of us, did ye? Knock us into graves? Ruin a night’s work? Now ye pay!”

Jake stepped forward, jaw tight, “Fuck off! We’re just kids!”

“Ye kin should have done a better job at raisin ye,” Barton spat. “Now ye will learn the hard way.”

He swung the spade. The metal caught Jake hard across the side and sent him sprawling into the mud. The world spun for a heartbeat, stars bursting behind his eyes.

“Jake!” Ben shouted. He charged without thinking, grabbing a broken timber and swinging it like a bat. It connected with the man’s shoulder with a sickening crack. The robber staggered back, cursing.

Ben dropped to his knees beside Jake, “Hey, you okay?”

Jake blinked up at him, dazed, mud streaking his face, “I've had worse. It's nothing an ollie wouldn't do to me."

Ben’s hand was still on his arm. For a fraction of a second, their eyes met — panic, relief, and something softer flickering underneath. The fight raged around them, but the noise seemed to fall away.

Then Jake gave a lopsided grin, “Didn’t know you cared.”

Ben snorted, his cheeks flushed, “Shut up, I just don’t fancy explaining to your mum why you died in the sixteenth century.”

“Touching,” Sam yelled from across the square, hurling a cobblestone at another robber. “Can we flirt after we survive this?”

The spell broke. Jake scrambled up, grabbing Ben’s hand to steady himself, “Right. Let’s finish this.”

Wallace came again, swinging wildly.

Emma pulled Lily back, but one of the men caught her sleeve. Ben saw the terror on their faces, not unlike his own when faced with his father’s bad temper.

Ben swung his beam again, “Get your filthy hands off her!” The blow landed with a crack.

Lily took a pencil from her pocket and jabbed it into the man’s wrist. He howled, dropping his lantern. The flame flared, throwing monstrous shadows across the walls.

“We’ll bury you ourselves!” Barton roared, raising a length of chain.

And then — the air shifted.

A cold gust rolled through the square, thick with mist. The sound changed — no longer shouting, but whispering. Soft at first. Then layered, building like a tide of voices.

“What—what's that?” Wallace gasped.

From every doorway, every broken window, the ghosts emerged. Pale. Hollow-eyed. Dozens of them. Men, women, children — all moving as one, their faces turned toward the robbers.

“No,” The other graver robber whimpered. “We didn’t mean—”

The nearest spirit reached out, her fingers passing through his arm. Frost spread where she touched. He screamed and bolted. The other two followed, stumbling into the fog, their lanterns falling and sputtering out behind them.

The ghosts didn’t pursue. They gathered instead around the students, silent, their faces softer now.

Jake wiped blood from his mouth, breathing hard, “Guess we’ve got backup.”

Lily’s voice was a whisper, “They saved us.”

"I guess they finally worked out we hadn't done anything," Jake added. "It wasn't our doing."

Through the thinning mist came Ms Marlowe’s calm, deliberate voice, “Indeed, they have. But they’re still not free.”

Ben’s voice cracked the silence, “We saw them, Ms…ghosts. Proper ghosts.”

“Can’t we just go! I’ve been spooked enough. My undies will never be the same again.” Jake complained.

Ms Marlowe looked at them each in turn — tired, frightened, dirt-streaked, but unbroken. “If we leave now, the village will never rest. They will wander forever, scaring away any new settlers that arrive here.”

“How can we help?” Lily asked softly.

Marlowe unbuttoned her coat and drew out a slim leather-bound volume — The Journal of Curiosities. The edges were damp, the ink smudged, but her voice was steady as she read, “I think I have a cleansing ritual in here.” She opened the book, “Somewhere…” She began flicking through the pages until she stopped, “Yes! This will do!” She handed each of them something from her inside pocket: a stub of candle and of chalk, a torn scrap of parchment, a tiny bottle of water, and a silver chain. “Make a circle with the chalk,” she said. “Not of binding but of remembrance.”

They knelt together, tracing a wide ring of chalk across the cold ground. The circle glowed faintly under the moonlight.

Ms Marlowe began to speak, her voice carrying through the still air, “He bound you in false holiness, with lime and fear, with names erased. We unbind you now —Not in judgment, but in truth.”

Emma unfolded the parchment. The ink was brown with age. It looked like a torn page from a bible.

“Ms Summers! Read the line.”

Her voice trembled but grew stronger as she read, “We release their souls with mercy.”

The wind stirred. The chalk dust shimmered pale blue.

“Now add water to the circle!”

Sam poured water from the tiny bottle into the circle. Steam hissed softly where it touched the chalk.

“Let the water wash the salt from the wound,” Ms Marlowe said. “Now light the candle!”

Ben lit his candle and set it inside the circle. The flame wavered but did not go out.

“Let there be light without fire,” she whispered, “truth without flame. Now scatter something of nature, dear Lily.”

Lily took the wildflowers from her pocket and scattered them into the circle.

“Let the living remember the dead with gentleness.” Ms Marlowe said. “Now press the silver chain to the soil.”

Jake pressed the silver chain into the soil between the cobblestones within the circle.

“Let love for the living be stronger than revenge.” Their teacher proclaimed.

Ms Marlowe lifted her head. The wind carried the faint sound of voices — hundreds of them, layered and soft, like the echo of hymns through stone, “By the dust that binds and the mercy that frees. By heart, by hand, by breath, by faith, depart this sorrow — rise to rest. The ground is clean, the air is kind. Be unmade, be remembered, be whole.”

The candle flames flared white. The circle of chalk pulsed once, twice, then burst into a soft radiance.

The fog thickened, swirling upward. Faces formed within it — the men, women, children, their eyes calm now, their mouths no longer crying but singing. The sound was low, reverent — a song without words, a melody of release.

Lily gripped Emma’s hand, “They’re thanking us.”

Emma nodded, tears in her eyes, “They’re free.”

The spectrels all walked into the circle and disappeared like smoke in the wind. One of the last ghosts to pass through the circle was Jake's hottie. The lad turned to him and smiled before passing into the circle. The light climbed higher until all ghosts were gone.

The light climbed higher for a moment until it suddenly guttered out. Then, slowly, the air cleared. The chalk circle faded, leaving only the scent of rain and the faintest trace of warmth. The first rays of dawn peek over the horizon.

Ms Marlowe closed the journal and looked at her students — her mismatched, brave, foolish little band,
“The past doesn’t ask for forgiveness,” she said. “Only that we listen long enough to understand it.”

Jake glanced around the quiet village, “What happens now?”

“Now?” Marlowe smiled faintly. “Now we remember them. And we try not to repeat their story. It is time we returned to the future and let this village be.”

Ms Marlowe touched the clock on his wrist, and the portal spewed open before them. It was time to leave this forsaken place. They each stepped into the portal, returning disoriented to the warmth of their classroom. Strangely, it had only been an hour since they had left. Time plays odd tricks.

#Ghost Story #Abandoned Village #Historical Mystery #Time Travel Fiction #Religious Persecution #Ms Marlowe Series #Haunted Places #Found Family #Creepy Adventure #Teen Heroes