hunters

The damp autumn air hung heavy over Sick-a-Moor Castle, a crumbling Victorian pile that smelled entirely of wet spaniel and damp wallpaper. Philomena adjusted her tweed flat cap, checked the readings on her EMF scanner, and cleared her throat. ‘Right then, Sean,’ Philomena said, tapping the plastic casing of her device. ‘The local parish newsletter swears the East Wing is…