February 2013
As Robert Devielle squinted at the gravestones, dusk was melting into darkness. He started to feel uneasy. The country churchyard was isolated and as mist began to swirl around him like a vampire's cloak, he shivered uncontrollably. About a year ago, he had started to research the family's history. He became curious after reading an article in the local paper. It referred to a promise made to the villagers by Sir Henry Devielle, which was broken by his brother, Robert. The fact that this black sheep had the same name resonated; he decided to investigate.
Many documents had been destroyed in a fire, but he had discovered that Henry had been an arrogant and unpleasant man until something had changed him. He had a vast collection of books which were famous for their rarity and quality, this library was created by his ancestors. Henry had no interest in books, but he allowed no-one to make use of them.
One day, he found the gardener's eight year old son in the library, crouched in the corner looking at a book about plants. Henry beat him so hard that the boy never recovered. He didn't die, but the sight of the mute, scarred little boy, limping along the paths gave him nightmares. He was convinced that he would only find peace if he gave his house up, so that the villagers could use it as a library. He had all the papers drawn up, but he had a massive stroke before it was signed.
His priest stood by, powerless, as Henry desperately tried to communicate to Robert what he must do. Robert nodded, reassuring his brother. However, Henry, knowing his brother's character, said with amazing clarity, 'If you do not carry out my wishes, I will never rest. I will return on this day one hundred years hence to destroy any Devielle living in this accursed house!' The clock struck noon as Henry died. Of course, Robert broke his promise and he, and his descendants, continued to live there.
Robert thanked God that he'd put a torch in his pocket and continued to search frantically. He tripped over something and cursed. Moving away ivy and earth, he discovered a broken gravestone and read, 'Here lies Sir Henry Devielle', his eyes fixed onto the date of his death . . . the seventeenth . . . of January . . . that was this month. The blood drained from his face...one hundred years ago...exactly. He had less than a week to save himself.
That night, his nightmares were even worse than before. Ever since he'd been digging into the story, the feeling of impending doom had enveloped him. He begged the solicitors to draw up the documents quickly, but they dragged their heels, as usual. The day of the Seventeenth dawned. The villagers had organised a magnificent celebration, with stalls and dancing. Robert was on the stage with members of the Parish Council. He was nervous, and anxious to get on with the signing. How much longer would the Vicar take over his speech? It was already five to twelve. A shadow started to obscure the sun, thunder could be heard overhead.
Robert wasted no time; he bounded to the table and signed his name. There was silence. Time seemed to stand still; everyone stopped and looked around them...what was going to happen? The shadow disappeared, Robert felt the sun on his face, and his tears of relief flowed freely.