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    “I am glad that you are well, Constable,” the Rector said. “You seem to have taken a bit of a spill.”
    “Yes, Sir,” Ed said. “But I need to explain how—“
    “Indeed! I would like to talk to you about that—in good time, of course. When you feel a bit better. For now, just know that you have done well in your investigations and should be proud.”
    Proud? The Rector held his odd smile, and Ed wondered if he were patronizing him.             
    “Thank you … sir,” Ed choked out, embarrassed by his own nervousness. He tried not to stare at the Rector’s eyes, but he couldn’t help it.
    “Why are you—? Oh, my eyes .” The Rector chuckled. “I was using a caustic solution to clean some old family silver. Too delicate a matter to leave to the servants, you see. But I splashed some of the acid in my eyes. Have to sleep with a plaster across my face, but they should heal up soon.” 
    “Father,” Julia said, “can we get Constable Bolt something to eat?”
    “Of course, dear child. In fact, Constable—why don’t you join us for a late dinner? Reverend Mott will lead you down in a moment. Julia, come with me now, please.”
    “But father,” she protested, “I need to help him. Please?”
    The Rector shook his head. “It wouldn’t be proper, child. I am sure that the Constable can get dressed on his own.”
    She nodded meekly, but her desperate eyes never left Ed as her father escorted her out the door.
    Ed found his shirt and jacket on a nearby chair, and tugged them on. He used his fingers to straighten his hair, watching himself in the mirror which hung opposite the door to the hall. Suddenly, the door creaked open. In the mirror he could see that someone in black robes stood there, waiting half inside the room.
    “Err … Reverend Mott?” Ed asked.
    The newcomer stepped into the room, and raised an arm to point at Ed.
    His hand was skeletal, with pink strands of muscle barely covered by shreds of grey flesh. His hood slipped back, and Ed could see the too-wide grin of his corpse-like face.
    Ed’s chest clenched up, his legs quivered, and he gasped feebly, paralyzed by fear.
    Ed watched in the mirror as the deathly finger curled up, beckoning to him, and the thing hissed:
    “The t-t-table of the Lord is sset for thee, and thou art late to come into Hisss presenshh. Do not mock Hisss grayshhh!”              
    “Rutting hell,” Ed whispered.

Chapter 6
     
    As the clock in the Powell mansion’s dining room struck the hour of two o’clock in the morning, Ed Bolt sat down at the table, a plate of cold victuals set before him.
    Young Julia Powell took her place in the chair beside him, holding out her skirt as she sat, brushing her long red hair behind her ears before she slid in closer to the table. She was obviously nervous, yet worked very hard to remain lady-like and composed.
    Ed concentrated on her because he did not want to look across the table, where Rector Powell was just sitting down. That … thing … called Reverend Mott was already seated beside the Rector, his ragged hood still obscuring his eyes.
    “Let us have a brief prayer,” the Rector said, “before we enjoy this repast.” He cleared his throat: “God our heavenly Father, who giveth us this food, we commend ourselves to you. Our bodies, hearts and spirits are yours, and we are grateful for the sustenance thy glory provides. Amen.”
    For a preacher, it was an unusually short dinner prayer. Ed’s own father, Reverend Bolt, typically droned on for five minutes or more before the family was permitted to eat. But then, Ed’s family would never have dined in the dead of the night, either, nor had a walking corpse for a guest at their table … 
    Rutting hell! None of this made any sense, and thinking about it made him dizzy.
    He wondered if it might help if he ate something. Looking down at his plate, he saw a piece of ham, some cold stewed cabbage, and a slice of some raisin