The Indweller

The pervasive sounds of the eerie howling wind had prevailed over the old, decrepit manor, amidst the towering trees of the forest beyond the garth, where the hovering clouds of murk shadowed the crescent moon. The pale colour of the viridity of the moss and vines slid down the ornate windows. The doors and hinges were covered in the mould of rust. The mansard roof was worn and torn by the heavy drops of rain. The courtyard was strewn with fallen brunescent leaves, devoid of their blee.

It was a selcouth manor of utter despair and obscurity. Deep inside the manor lay an untold secret that few had ever known to exist. There, behind the draperies of the windows of the loft, was a hideous indweller that had lurked for innumerable decades.

It was a mild day of autumn in the year 1928 when Mr Brumby had arrived by car that morning at the old Canfield Estate in Devon, England, located on the outskirts of Exeter. It had been raining when he had come to see the property on behalf of the bank that was interested in remodelling the forlorn manor. He had brought two young secretaries with him on this trip, whose names were Bernice and Abigail, to assist him in documenting his report. He had originally planned on driving back to Exeter that same day, as he had a private engagement with an important businessman.

On the way to the manor, they had passed the narrow and tedious roads that led to the rural towns of Barnstaple, Great Torrington, Bideford, Tiverton, and Crediton. His intention was to stay an hour or less, but he would be forced to alter his plans drastically due to the menacing storm that was approaching.

When they had entered the solitary and abandoned manor, they were greeted by the terrible gloom and opacity that had encompassed the interior décor of the manor. It was surreal to fathom that the manor had once had a pristine appearance and had been the venue for festive gatherings of aristocrats and their disportment.

From what he had been told, its original proprietors had left the manor in the hands of the bank. There were no inheritors mentioned or who had claimed the estate and manor through an elaborated will. It was somewhat odd that no one from the immediate family would be interested in purchasing the manor.

The unique history of the manor was also linked to madness. The Canfields had only one child, Barnabas, who had mysteriously disappeared and was presumed dead. Mr Canfield had gone mad, as had his wife. There were three rooms on the first storey and four rooms upstairs, an 18th-century chandelier in the main hall, and a fireplace nearby the ample parlour. A spiralling stairway was in the centre.

What was most noticeable to observe was the particles of dust that had covered the rusty furniture and the dishevelled tapestries. It appeared that no one had lived in the manor for decades. The eldritch image of abandonment was conspicuously present throughout the manor.

Mr Brumby had assumed that it would require considerable renovation and repair. He knew that the bank was interested in remodelling the place, but he was unclear as to why, except for the morbific nature of its value, which he had surmised.

His two secretaries amused themselves, discussing personal matters that did not concern him. This allowed him to explore the manor more in depth and to write down all the pertinent details that were descriptive of the manor, in particular, what was required to be remodelled.

His expectations were reasonable, as were the expectations of the bank. It was a gamble, to say the least, but one that was seen as profitable. No one amongst them had even contemplated the terrifying madness that would be experienced on that unforgettable day. Mr Brumby had told the young women along the way that they would not tarry much, and that he would finish his business there as soon as possible. There was no need for him to stay longer than what was necessary.

One of Mr Brumby’s secretaries had discovered the torn pages of an old diary. It appeared that it had been written by Mrs Canfield years ago. What was relevant were the contents, which were descriptive in words. There was a specific mention of how she was truly concerned about the erratic behaviour of her son Barnabas.

Apparently, her husband Mr Canfield had been very abusive towards her and their son. He was often absent from the manor, travelling. There was nothing more of substance that could be analysed or surmised with circumspection. It was alarming to read such a revealing part of the Canfield family. There are so many families with mysteries and secrets that are concealed and bizarre in their origin. The rain had begun to increase with the ventosity, and the storm had approached, with intervals of lightning and thunder.

Mr Brumby had planned on avoiding the storm and departing the manor before it had arrived, but it was too late. They would be forced to wait out the storm inside the old and haunting manor. His two secretaries were not content to have to spend their time inside such a creepy place as the Canfield Manor. The fact that the rural roads were not very accessible had also hampered their visibility to drive.

Perhaps it was Mr Brumby’s urgency to inspect the manor that had impaired his poor judgement and assiduity. This, he had conceded to the women, who had advised him before the trip to wait until the next day when the weather was more clement. Mr Brumby had explored the manor from below, but not from above.

Thereafter, he told his secretaries that he would be back. He would finish exploring the manor upstairs in the rooms that were uninhabited. As he walked up the stairway, he sensed that there was nothing at all that was accommodating or hospitable about the manor that he could express a token measure of appreciation.

It was eerily dark and dull upstairs, and the rooms were empty and spectral. Not a single soul, he thought, had been inside them for some considerable period of time. The bedrooms of the Canfields were abandoned, and as he entered another room, he had the impression that the room had belonged to the little boy, their child, Barnabas.

It was difficult to imagine that the manor had once been lively and decorative. It was the first time he had seen a manor reduced to a hollow essence of its former aesthetic grandeur and pulchritude. Whatever memories had been made in this manor were forever concealed in its surreptitious past.

There was not much to distinguish the other rooms upstairs from those he had already entered. They were all demonstrative of a melancholic caliginosity that was present throughout the manor. The intolerable smell of the putrid moss and vines from outside had penetrated through the oriel windows. Simply, there was a lot of work that was needed in the manor, which required time and effort, in particular, due to the posthumous nature of the original proprietors.

The rain was pouring down on the roof, and the lightning flashed with a bright refulgence. The obstreperous noise of thunder resounded. As Mr Brumby was heading back down the spiralling stairway, he perceived a sudden noise of footsteps coming from the loft above.

At first, he was not certain if he had indeed heard footsteps, or if it was the queer effects of the storm outside raging. The stairway had led to the loft, but he was apprehensive to go up the stairs and investigate on his own. If the manor inside was in such a terrible condition, then surely the loft would be worse, he thought. He dismissed the footsteps and headed back down the stairway to join his secretaries, who were waiting for him.

When he was back downstairs, he found the women in the dining room. They were staring at a singular portrait, believed to be of a young boy who was assumed to be Barnabas, the son of the Canfields. It was strange to see that the portrait was not covered in the same dust as the furniture.

It seemed as though someone had recently polished the dust, which led to the conclusion that the portrait had been tended to recently. The mystery of the manor thickened with this new discovery. Mr Brumby was unaware that someone had been in the house before they had arrived. Perhaps there was a logical explanation for the portrait; nevertheless, it was ironic that it was the only portrait of the young Barnabas seen. His features were notably distinguishable. It was regrettable that he was never located in the end.

Mr Brumby wondered about the terrible circumstances the poor boy had endured, and the consequences of those circumstances. It was difficult for him to get into the mind of a child at that age and understand the deep suffering and confusion he had experienced. To grow up in such a hectic place and environment, rather than an ideal one, had likely been detrimental to the boy’s welfare. He could only assume that at some point, the boy had experienced at least some small measure of normalcy in his childhood.

It was impossible to know the full extent of his abnormal life and relationship with his parents, inside or outside the manor. There were so many questions, yet few answers were revealed. Until now, this had been their quandary. One thing was certain: there was something queer. Transparent traces of footprints had appeared across the floors of the manor. One of the secretaries, who had been walking in the lower storey of the house, had observed them. Judging from the footprints, this would suggest that someone had been in the house recently.

There was another possibility: the person could still be in the manor. If someone was present, where were they, and why couldn’t they see them? The dim light of daylight was the only true light they could rely on to illuminate their surroundings. The only two places Mr Brumby had not yet explored were the cellar and the loft. He knew both would be dark, and it would be difficult to see much. He had promised his secretaries that after exploring these two rooms, they would be leaving, despite the heavy rain that pounded the rooftop of the manor.

The thought that there might be someone inside urged him to go down into the cellar. He had not intended to leave them alone, so he proceeded down the stairs. As he did, he heard two terrible screams. Immediately, he ran up the stairs, and found Abigail shaking with fright. Her countenance was pale, as if she had seen a horrifying spectre.

When he asked her where Bernice, the other secretary, was, she could only tell him that she had been grabbed and taken away by force. When he asked her who had grabbed her, she said that it was a menacing monster. She didn’t know where Bernice had been taken.

When Mr Brumby asked her to describe the thing or stranger, she could not divulge many details, except for some small ones that were vague and ambiguous. She mentioned an unannounced silhouette that had appeared from behind them, startling them. She described the intruder as being of average height, but with long, sharp fingernails. He had a peculiar mask that concealed his face. She could see a black film over his eye, and he had a heavy breath that was unlike any normal human's. Mr Brumby could sense the rising terror in her expression and demeanour. He began to look all around for his missing secretary. He searched upstairs and downstairs in the rooms below, but to no avail. He could not find either her or the stranger. He had to calm the unsettling nerves of the secretary, as he could feel her rapid heartbeat.

Abigail refused to leave his side and begged him to leave the manor, even if that meant leaving without Bernice. There was no phone to call the police or summon help. They were left to find Bernice on their own. Abigail insisted on going directly to the police.

Mr Brumby was unsure what had possessed him to ignore her advice. Instead, he promised her that he would find Bernice, and that once he had, they would immediately depart from the manor. There was only one place he had not entered yet—the loft above them. Could Bernice have been taken to the loft secretly? It was only his intuition that compelled him to consider this possibility. It seemed the most likely place the intruder would have been hiding.

Abigail didn’t want him to leave her alone. He had to convince her that he would return quickly. She was too frightened to leave the manor, though. Her fear had kept her in place, while Mr Brumby had to find Bernice. He gradually climbed the spiralling stairway, when he suddenly heard Abigail scream. He ran back down the stairs to her.

She was on her knees, pointing towards the dining room. She told him she had seen the intruder again. This time, he had tried to take her away. It was disturbing to see her in sheer panic and confusion. Mr Brumby felt helpless at that moment, unable to protect her, and unable to prevent the abduction of his other secretary.

Carefully, he walked toward the dining room with her, as she held tightly onto his hand. The storm outside persisted as they made their way forward. They were mindful of the stranger lurking in the manor. The awful sound of the wooden floor creaking with each step they took made it impossible not to be heard.

When they reached the edge of the dining room, there was no sign of the intruder. He had completely disappeared. The question was: where had he gone? Neither of them had any real clue. It wasn’t until Mr Brumby approached the walls that he discovered what appeared to be a secret passage behind one of them. He didn’t know where the narrow passage led, but he was eager to find out.

The passage was dark and dreary, and only the occasional flash of lightning provided any light. It was a daring risk to enter under such extreme conditions, but they did so at their own discretion. Once inside, they found what seemed to be a labyrinth of tunnels connected to the rooms downstairs. Who had created these passages, and who was using them? If the intruder was the person responsible for the passages, then it meant he had been observing them since their arrival at the manor.

That was a terrifying thought to entertain. The suspense deepened with each passing moment. While they were in the passages, they heard a distant scream from above. As they moved closer, someone had closed the door of the wall they had entered through. It was no mere coincidence—the intruder had closed the door. This frightened his secretary, who was still shaken from the earlier encounter with the stranger.

Mr Brumby tried to calm her anxiety, and fortunately, they were able to escape the secret passages through one that led to another room. The room they found was a private gallery, filled with old portraits and family photographs that had belonged to the Bellington family. What stood out was the image of a young boy who they presumed was Barnabas, the missing child.

The mystery of the boy had begun to occupy Mr. Brumby’s lingering thoughts, but his primary concern was finding the other secretary, who had been taken by the wretched indweller. Her life was in grave danger, and it was his responsibility to locate her. After all, he had brought her to this dreadful manor in the first place.

They were able to exit into the parlour, where they saw noticeable drops of blood on the floor. Mr. Brumby had closely examined the blood but could not determine whose it was. For a brief moment, there was an eerie silence, as the storm’s lightning and thunder momentarily ceased their terror.

It was an unsettling coincidence. Was it the blood of the stranger, or worse, from his other secretary? The trail of blood led towards the cellar beneath them. The thought of entering the cellar crossed his mind, but his secretary had implored him not to go down there.

His curiosity about the indweller compelled him to descend the stairs and see if he could find him. Mr. Brumby grabbed a piece of plywood and assured his secretary that he would only descend halfway. As he moved down the stairs, he could smell the stench of blood, and there were troubling signs that someone had recently been in the cellar.

The cellar reeked of death. He found countless bones and skulls scattered around. As he was occupied with this grim discovery, someone slammed the door to the cellar, trapping him downstairs. He then heard a loud scream, one that sounded like his remaining secretary, Abigail. Mr. Brumby pounded on the cellar door, shouting, but it would not budge. He realised that the indweller had seized both of his secretaries and taken them away to his lair.

He had no time to waste if he wanted to rescue them both. At that point, he was not even sure they were still alive. Who was this depraved stranger living in the manor, and why had he abducted his secretaries? Whoever he was, he was very clever and intelligent. Mr. Brumby was at a clear disadvantage, and the indweller held the upper hand.

Mr. Brumby’s knowledge of the manor was limited, especially when it came to the sinister indweller. The cellar was pitch-black, with only the faint light from a lone window providing any illumination. He used this to guide himself through the cellar, banging on the door with the plywood numerous times before finally breaking the doorknob and opening it. It was a harrowing experience to be trapped inside the cellar.

When he managed to exit the cellar and return to the main floor, he could not find Abigail. Another scream echoed through the manor, this time coming from upstairs in the loft. It was the only area he had not yet explored. His heart raced, and his palms became clammy. Mr. Brumby had to act quickly and decisively, for time was of the essence. He ascended the spiralling staircase with extreme caution.

As he climbed, he could feel the impending danger in the loft, but as he drew nearer, he could also hear faint sounds of breathing and weeping. Were these the agonised sounds of his captured secretaries still alive?

The storm had intensified once again, with the thunder and lightning roaring. When Mr. Brumby reached the doorknob of the loft, it felt warm, as if someone had recently entered. It was a chilling thought. What would he find behind that eerie door?

Slowly, he turned the doorknob and opened the door. It appeared to have been left ajar. Was it done intentionally? What he discovered inside would shock and mortify him. In the dim shadows of the loft, both of his secretaries were bound with cloth, their mouths gagged, and their hands and feet tied with rope.

Mr. Brumby was in utter disbelief. He could hardly believe what he was seeing. The women had seen him enter and were visibly relieved to be rescued from their fearful captivity. They were terrified and desperate to be freed. He quickly untied them and escorted them down the spiralling stairs, away from the horror of the loft. Their goal was to escape the madness of the manor alive, but as they reached the final step, they were confronted by the intimidating figure of the sinister indweller.

He was wearing the same mask and garments. Mr. Brumby told the women to flee to the door while he confronted the indweller. He struck the man in the face with the plywood, knocking him to the floor. For a brief moment, it seemed he had rendered him unconscious. He removed the mask to reveal the hideous, deformed face of a monster. The indweller had long, scrappy hair, dark, sinister eyes, and an aquiline nose. Despite his emaciated frame, he was surprisingly strong.

Mr. Brumby ordered the two secretaries to run to the car outside. However, as he was distracted by their escape, the indweller rose to his feet and grabbed him from behind. They struggled on the floor, but Mr. Brumby managed to break free. He punched the indweller in the face and ran for the front door, but as he turned the doorknob, the indweller reached him and knocked him unconscious.

When Mr. Brumby regained consciousness, he found himself bound with rope from head to toe. His eyes were drawn to the horrific sight of the naked indweller, and the appalling sight of both of his secretaries, killed and mutilated, their bodies hanging upside down, bloodied and severed. Was he to become the next victim? What was more horrifying was the sight of the indweller eating the flesh of his secretaries.

The indweller was a barbaric cannibal, his sharp fingernails resembling those of a carnifex. His body was disfigured and hirsute, his pale skin and pointed teeth glistening as saliva dripped from his mouth. His head was massive, and his lips were bright red.

After stepping away from the loft, the indweller descended the spiralling stairs. The blood from the mutilated bodies of Mr. Brumby’s secretaries dripped heavily onto the floor. Their tongues had been removed with a large knife. The indweller left the scene, but Mr. Brumby had no idea where he had gone. He remained unnerved and shocked by the horrors he had just witnessed. Why had the indweller spared him? Why hadn’t he killed him and mutilated him like the others?

Perhaps he had spared him for a reason, or perhaps it was simply to keep him as his final victim. It was a chilling thought. Mr. Brumby was in a dire predicament, with no way to control the outcome. How would he escape this time? There was no one to hear his screams or help him.

Desperation and panic overtook him. He struggled to unfasten the ropes but could not free himself. Over and over, he wondered what he could do to escape and avoid the same fate as his poor secretaries. The indweller had been living in the manor as a wretched occupant, and now Mr. Brumby was his prisoner.

His identity was still unknown to Mr Brumby, as was his eldritch behaviour. For how long had he been living amidst the shambles of the rickety manor and its abhorrent condition? It was definitely a nerve-racking ordeal to overcome. Was the indweller someone related to the Canfield family? Was this monster the lost son of the Canfields? Mr Brumby could not dismiss that unfathomable possibility. He was able to loosen the rope around his feet.

When the indweller had returned, he had smiled and displayed a demented expression on his countenance. At first, he had grunted an utterance of words that Mr Brumby could not comprehend in their meaning nor entirety. It was impossible to tell, but he would soon learn that the indweller could not speak, because his tongue had been sliced off, leaving only a small portion of it intact.

It was a horrific scene to witness in person. For some unknown reason, the indweller had wanted to communicate with him, despite his uncouthness. He grabbed a pencil and wrote down notes with the precise words he had wanted to express.

The first thing Mr Brumby noticed was that he had written his name, Barnabas, followed by his surname, Canfield. Mr Brumby knew at that moment that he was indeed the lost and estranged son of the Canfields. He was no longer a helpless child but a full-grown man who had been living for decades in the manor.

He described in vivid detail what his life had been like and the abominable monster he had become. He blamed his parents for his miserable deformity. He had no other place to go because of his disfigured features. He was seen as an outcast and a monster by the rest of the family.

Thus, he had vanished into the secret passageways that he had learned existed as a child. They had been originally built by his father, but he had expanded them over the decades. It was incredible that he had been living in the manor all those years, but what was worse, he had been forced into cannibalism.

It was hard to believe that he had been neglected as a child and had been so easily forgotten. Mr Brumby had the impression that the indweller needed to communicate with him. There was no need to ask him what he was going to do with him, since he knew that he would not allow him to leave the manor.

Was he taunting Mr Brumby, or was he truly being sincere in his revelations? There was no doubt in Mr Brumby's mind that the indweller was mad, but what degree of sanity was still left in him? How could he reach that vestige of sanity and deceive him effectively?

It was impossible to convince him to let him go free without there being any realistic consequences. Therefore, Mr Brumby's only available option was to use duplicity against him. It would be his only recourse. He had invented the lie that he could have the bank remodel the place and hand him over the property. This was a tactic he had devised. Mr Brumby sensed that this would make him react favourably.

For a brief moment, he stood before the indweller, contemplating the weight of his words. The indweller stood by the window, with his back towards him. It was the exact moment when Mr Brumby was forced to act, and he did. Straight away, he rose to his feet and struck the indweller on the head. Mr Brumby was able to untie his hands and flee the loft.

He headed towards the spiralling staircase, but he was thwarted by the indweller. He grabbed Mr Brumby from behind and knocked him to the floor. Mr Brumby could see the enraged madness in his eyes, as he stood over him like a fierce monster. This time, he meant to kill him.

Mr Brumby struggled with him as the indweller tried to choke him with a lethal grip. Mr Brumby resisted with all his strength until he was capable of grabbing the indweller and throwing him down the spiralling staircase, where he broke his neck upon instant contact with the floor.

He had almost succeeded in choking Mr Brumby, who was not certain whether the indweller was dead from where he was upstairs. He stood there for a moment observing, then cautiously climbed down the staircase. When he reached the spot where the body lay motionless, he bent down to touch the indweller and indeed, he was stone dead. He would see the gruesome disfigurement of his face one last time.

There was no beating of the heart or pulse. Any signs of life had been extinguished with the fall. The indweller's madness had abated as well. Mr Brumby left the manor and the Bellington Estate, never to return. Within a week, it would be completely demolished. The bodies of his secretaries would be properly buried, as would the body of the grotesque indweller, Barnabas Canfield. The haunting secret of the manor had been properly put to rest and had been revealed, at last.

Even in the private setting of his house and thoughts, Mr Brumby could not forget the wretched sequence of events that had led to the evil and trepidation experienced in that atrocious manor. He would awaken some nights, with the horrendous nightmare of seeing the sanguine spectacle of the murders and the indelible face of the scorned indweller. How could such horrors exist? How could a boy become a monster?

It was several days after the devastating events at the manor, but the air still felt thick with the remnants of that sinister atmosphere. Mr Brumby had left the Bellington Estate, but the weight of his experiences lingered. He found himself unable to truly rid himself of the memory of Barnabas Canfield and the horrifying nature of what he had encountered within the manor's decaying walls.

One afternoon, as he sat in his study, a peculiar letter arrived. It was wrapped in a dark, brittle envelope. Mr Brumby’s heart skipped a beat. He hadn't expected any further communication from the Canfields or anyone related to that family, especially after the fate of Barnabas. With unsteady hands, he tore open the envelope and unfolded the yellowing paper within.

The letter was simple, written in a scrawled, almost frantic handwriting.

'I did not end. You think it is over. You are wrong. The house, the manor, and all that was buried within it still live. It is not gone. Not yet. There is a truth yet to be revealed',

Mr Brumby’s gaze fixed on the words. His mind raced, the memories of Barnabas—his tortured soul, his disfigurement, and the tragic life he had led—flooding back. What could this letter mean? How could the indweller still have a say in things, after all that had transpired? It had to be someone who was trying to frighten him.

He read the letter once more, searching for hidden meanings or clues. There was something unsettling in the cryptic words, something that gnawed at his understanding of the situation. Could there still be something left unfinished? Was there a deeper layer to the horror he had witnessed?

Without giving it a second thought, Mr Brumby knew he had to return to the manor, even if it meant confronting whatever remnants of the past still haunted its rotting halls. Despite the terror that still gripped his heart, a burning curiosity pushed him onward. He would find out what this cryptic letter meant—he had to. For his own peace of mind, he could not allow himself to remain in ignorance.

That evening, he made his way back to the estate. The journey seemed to stretch longer than it ever had before, and as he neared the manor, the oppressive weight of its haunted history seemed to press down upon him once more. The gates, once grand, now stood crooked and broken. The path leading up to the mansion was overgrown with weeds, as though nature itself was reclaiming what man had once built.

The manor loomed ahead, its towering silhouette dark against the dimming sky. Though the physical structure had been partially demolished, there were still remnants that stood like ghosts of a past that refused to die. A cold wind whispered through the trees, and the faint sound of creaking could be heard from the crumbling edifice, as if the building itself was breathing.

Mr Brumby approached with cautious steps. His mind raced with questions, but no answers presented themselves. He reached the front door, which had once been a grand entrance, but now hung open on rusted hinges, inviting him into the forgotten darkness. He stepped inside, the floorboards creaking underfoot as he slowly made his way through the once grandiose hall.

The air was thick with the musty scent of decay. His heart pounded in his chest as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. He had not expected to find the place in such disrepair. The walls were cracked, the ceiling sagging as though the bones of the house were rotting away. And yet, there was something...alive about it, something that clung to the air, lingering just beyond his reach.

As he ventured further into the manor, he noticed an oddity—a trail of footprints leading towards the lower levels, where the secret passageways had been. The same passageways Barnabas had used to hide, to escape the world that had forsaken him. Mr Brumby’s pulse quickened. Could someone still be using them? Could there be another part of the Canfield legacy that had yet to be uncovered?

The footprints led him to a hidden door in the far corner of the manor; one he had never noticed before. It was half-concealed beneath a mound of debris, its surface scuffed and worn. It appeared as though it had been opened recently, perhaps many times, yet it was a door Mr Brumby had never seen in all his previous visits.

With a deep breath, he pushed the door open, revealing a narrow staircase leading down into a basement-like area, shrouded in total darkness. The air was colder now, unnaturally so. As he descended the stairs, a shiver ran down his spine. He could hear faint noises, almost like whispers, or the scurrying of small creatures in the walls.

At the bottom, the passage opened up into a large, dimly lit chamber. The walls were lined with shelves, filled with old, tattered books and objects he couldn’t even begin to identify. In the centre of the room, there was a large, ancient-looking table, covered in dust. As his eyes moved over the contents of the room, he felt a strange sense of dread rising in him.

But it was the object on the table that made his blood run cold: a large, weathered journal with the initials "B.C." embossed on the cover. The letters seemed to stare at him, daring him to open it, daring him to read the final secret that Barnabas had left behind.

Taking a deep breath, Mr Brumby reached out and picked up the journal. As he opened it, the first page revealed a scrawled message that sent a chill through his entire being.

'The true story of the Canfields is not yet known. The curse is not ended. It has only just begun'.

A sense of foreboding settled in the pit of Mr Brumby’s stomach. The horror, it seemed, was far from over.

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