Through the years I had many names, today I am Marcus Steadfast. Remember that, remember me when I am gone, when you read about me in the newspapers and I make the ten o’clock TV news. To clarify, the Devil has my card marked, in every conceivable way I linger on death row like a prisoner locked in his solitary cell, time ticks away slowly and he watches, waiting for the right moment to perpetuate my final breath on this Earth. Something he dearly cherished I destroyed without conscience and that alone is my warrant of demise, but that’s a story for another time, right now I wait, crouching in the shadows, moving down dark alleys and desolate roads under disguise seeking solace and peace of mind. It won’t work, not in the long run anyway and I’m naive to consider these strange actions a solution, it is not, I’m just wasting my life, breath by breath and still I harbour no malice, it’s all my fault you see, but as it stands right now I am not in harm’s way.

The telephone in my hall often rings, I know who it is, it can’t be a friend as I have none. They make me work for free, faces and voices I hear but have never seen, a Secret Society by any other name. History and a police record of some length will point out that I have not always been the most pleasant of individuals, so I am powerless to decline these offers of work. There is a reputation that surrounds my past, I cannot hide it – I’m a complete bastard and with this stigma comes enemies and my godless friends at the end of this telephone line use their knowledge as blackmail and there’s not a thing I can do about it. They should die, if I found them they would succumb to my worst nightmares, but you see they are cleverer than me – so far that is, but one day they will see my face and know real fear as I plunge a twisted rusty knife into their cold gutless hearts.

There is a solitary table by a log fire in the ‘Sweet Mermaid’ half hidden by purple drapes and the contours of wood partitioning, I drink my scotch there alone, nobody bothers me but the curious and the stupid. “Seen any ghosts lately mate?” It’s always the same idiotic banal questions and I get sick of the interference and ambiguity of the pathetic creatures that consider themselves to be humourous and smart in front of their mates who drink ridiculous cocktails at the bar. My age is immaterial, but let it be known as I stand six foot seven with twenty stone of muscle and bone I’m not to be messed with as many have regretted in their arrogant pride – as I said, I am a force to be reckoned with – so never engage with a human enigma that carries a variety of equipment in his coat pockets you wouldn’t want to meet.

There is a need to clarify your occupation on much paperwork these days, ghost hunter never sits right with me as it practically mocks the sincerity of our profession, yet paranormal investigator makes it sound brittle as a science project beyond reproach and it has none of that questionable strength attached to it. So, strangers come knocking at my door and thrust papers into my hands, often I find photographs and maps under beers mats at my table in the “Mermaid” – it is their way of communication, I have no mobile telephone, I refuse to be indebted to a technological god that never sleeps – call me a luddite, I don’t care.

My belief is that the Secret Society has a religious backbone, an ordination from a superior creation, maybe God if you want me to be honest but I don’t give a damn anymore, I just need to escape their perpetual grip when the time is right. To get by I steal, borrow and scrape a living from any crumbs I can cling to, churches have open doors with easy pickings and my reluctance is none existent as they screw me over every day, so the status quo remains intact as I recovery my losses from their wealthy open arms. God gives, and God takes away, it’s a simple philosophy to understand that pays me endless dividends. So why should I care, we all end up in the dirt one way or another?

When they call I jump, it’s not much of a life in reality, but there are too many skeletons in my cupboard to risk the wrath of persons unknown and a 10 to 20 stretch at her majesty’s pleasure, so I take my punishment like all good boys should, but my day will come when I reap my spectacular revenge against them all! There is a personal vendetta that drives me above all else, a journey I have undertaken for many long years. It is a search of desperation, a preclude of life over death, a discovery of historic fact over fiction and I will not let the passion for a conclusion drop by the wayside until it is over. When I say to you that I am not a kindly man, it is the destructive force of this one being that has ruined my life and taken from me everything in the world that I once held dear. To this day I search in dark places, every clue uncovered is a piece of the jigsaw, every stone overturned adds further credence to my final discovery and then one day out of the blue came a call, not from the Society but freelance – mysterious sightings and vibrations of emotion deep in the woods of Somerset. I took the next train, for my findings I could make a few hundred quid and expenses, at last a square meal – maybe my fortunes were on the up – a paying job. Thank you, Lord, for your generous consideration?

Ventures like this are rare, a well-maintained caravan park ripe with summer tourists deep in the heart of a beautiful county. The owner greeted me in the office, I tried to look presentable but on my limited budget it was almost impossible, I was more like Columbo than Poirot in dress sense, but what the hell. The site had recently changed hands from father to young son when the old man strangely disappeared, and the naive kid was left holding a very lucrative baby. Still, there were complaints he said, residents scared to roam the grounds in the evening and night, fearful of sensations, thoughts of being watched but never seeing the watcher. Campers leaving in the dead of night, awoken from sleep by sounds and noises they could not identify, some appearing to be injured by a shadowy invader of the darkness. Now as bizarre as this may seem, experience and logic told me most things in life have explanations, either scientific or natural manifestations of the mind, without doubt very little is separated into a black hole labelled inexplainable.

The site is expansive, covering many acres, some are golden meadows, open and bright where the sun never fails to shine, and others are tranquil areas, cooled by running water and lakes of crystal and sparkling silver. Woods full of might oak, sycamore and horse chestnut, heavy with vegetation and dank from a canopy never pierced by the rays of the sun. Cloudy mist curls and circles the moss and bracken like it’s constantly searching for a permanent home, as if it’s reaching out to find solace from the bright of the day. I spoke with my hand on my heart to the residents and day visitors, hearing their concerns, experiencing their personal fears about what they couldn’t understand about the sounds and sights of the night. I smile thinking it’s a case of mass hysteria, physiologically one and all pulling in the same direction from severe rumour mongering. Nothing less than fools, all of them, grown men and women who should know better in understanding what they experienced was nothing to despair of in the cool of the morning breeze, and then I walk the perimeter to feel the ambience of the place and more by error than judgement lose myself in the dense undergrowth of shrubs and saplings, sinking deeper and deeper into the heart of the heavy woods.

Time passes slowly as I wade headlong through the claustrophobic branches, wet leaves licking my cool face, lost in my distant thoughts of another time and place with someone I loved. It makes me angry, I feel the need to lash out, destroy the things that chase my blood in the darkness and shadows of an alternate world. Suddenly there is brightness in the distance, sunshine bleeding into a clearing, an oasis of opportunity in the middle of thickly populated woods and under the spiderlike branches of an aged hawthorn tree sits a dilapidated caravan – and I wonder – why is it here? The thing is covered in green algae, it looks like a model that’s been sat in the same spot from the sixties and is sunk into the earth right up to its underbelly. The ground around it is dry and solid and it rests in the dark silhouette of the great tree, comfortable and charming as though it waits longingly for its photograph to be taken. I don’t oblige, it’s a strange spooky scene that leaves me with nothing but a desire to leave, there is certainly a forceful emotion running through this glade steeped in history. The caravan is heavily padlocked over the door and has no windows, only steel bars bolted through the body of its structure. There is a deep mystery here, I must leave as quickly as I can, there’s a sensation crawling down the length of my spine and through the follicles of my hair and it’s scaring the shit out of me. Suddenly it feels like familiar territory, that déjà vu from earlier times I can’t quite recall – someone here is watching me.

Back at the office the owner looks at me puzzled, glancing side to side as though it’s a difficult topic he has no desire to talk about. “Father spoke about it many times when I was young. Said I was never to go anywhere near that dell, it was not a good place to be especially at night – something bad happened there years ago and it would give me nightmares if I stayed around. So, I never did go there, it was that simple.”

“But why a caravan, it sits there like it’s found a home – how did it get there?” I ask not really expecting an answer that would make any definitive sense of the puzzle.

“Look,” he says agitated, emotion rising in his voice. “I don’t know okay – since my father disappeared this place is driving me nuts. Its always been there, I guess, I’ve not given that old thing any thought in years. Why the interest, it’s just a knackered old van right, been there decades. It doesn’t mean anything?”

I get the impression he’s being honest with me, but there’s a nervousness in his stance I can’t reconcile. My blood starts to boil as I need answers and this man is not giving me any or is harbouring a secret. “You seriously don’t see it do you, there’s enough malevolent energy in that wood to put a flock of mediums into psychiatric care for the rest of their lives and you get complaint after complaint from your residents and you just ignore it? Sir – in my book that’s just damn poor management. Take it from me there is something evil in that place and you need to see, so get your coat and a crowbar, you and me are opening up that old crate. You need answers, it’s your business, you’re paying me to sort it – remember?”

He looks at me horrified, I see the dread etched across his young face. “I ain’t going there, no way, just no way. I remember Father used to go there regular to take a look at that old thing and see what happened to him? He’s just gone, vanished, no message, no indication and you’re telling me there’s no connection – ‘cause I can feel it,” he bangs his heart with a clenched fist. “In here – deep in here. He had secrets alright, but they would never steal him away. Something else did. So, you go, and I’ll just wait right here thanks till you come back with answers.”

By the time I return the night is slowly drawing in, it adds a further disturbing dimension to the already unpleasant dread building inside me. Everything has shadows, trees move back and forth, the long grass sways in unison, an eerie calm fills the hollow. I step up to the caravan in fear, I unbutton my coat as I’m sweating but still feel cold, the crowbar feels flimsy in my nervous hands and it struggles to find purchase in the heavy locking paraphernalia that secures the door. There is nothing I see through the bars of the glassless windows but darkness and the smell of damp earth. You might have guessed by now that I’m not a man weak of temperament, or fearful of much in this world, yet I know there is no scientific explanation to solve this sentient creation which invades the fabric of my nervous system. This is the real thing, powerful emotions of dread, a natural phenomenon leeching from the rotting carcass of a caravan made decades ago, and in all my years on this well-trodden earth have I felt something so tangible and powerful and violent but a hand full of times. The locks give way and the door swings slowly open and instinctively I move backways fearing fury of some unknown entity. Nothings fills my space but the sound of unease and anxiety like a mouse squeaking in terror when it smells a hungry nearby cat. Inside is darkness and shadows thick like a spring mist rolling across a gently flowing river and I cannot speak as I investigate that blank empty space. There is no floor in the caravan, just barren earth devoid of life as if it has always harboured death and it does. What is wedged into that sterile ground is not what I expected, far from it, but no less shocking and it stops me in my tracks as my brain explores all the bizarre possibilities of my vision. A closed coffin deep in the earth, mysteriously etched and beautifully carved and crafted from the finest ancient timbers surrounded by a deep sense of malevolence and yet, I fear nothing, not any horror that emanates from the box or creature that lies within. I kneel beside that wooden casket and the light gently fades to grey as I use all my strength to remove the lid from that monstrous cabinet of death. It slips easily to the floor and as I peer into its bowels, there is nothing there at first glance and then . . .

“Master!” An automatic response I cannot control. I say it twice whispering as I recognise that face, those crossed arms, that ancient attire, that look of arrogance and violence. This is death, slumbering, waiting, confident in its woeful mask of humanity. I know this thing, it cannot be described as human even though it bears that resemblance.

“Master,” I speak with terror in my voice. “We meet again, it’s been lifetimes and here we are in a shitty caravan. I’m humbled to worship at your chapel, to grace the very ground you inhabit, to be in your presence one last time. It’s time to say goodbye Master?” He does not answer; the dark is not yet upon us.

I wear my coat of long pockets, it hides countless secrets and I dig deep inside its textile treasury and pull out my favourite instruments of destruction. There is no breath, his chest does not rise, I register no life in those bones, yet I know he only sleeps for a moment. Time is passing, darkness drawing close as I press the point of my wooden stake into the fabric of his jacket above his heart and in my other hand the mallet. The final kiss of death is moments away. Decades have I waited for this, vengeance the redeemer, revenge the healer of long forgotten wounds and I will have my fill of pleasure as I see this thing rot and dissolve before my very eyes.

The mallet descends upon that wooden stake with a speed I cannot control and . . . never lands for I am held back by the grip of a maniac.

The Masters eyes open. “Deiter,” he says calmly in recognition of my face. “Has it come to this, you wish to finish me like a caged animal, with no escape. Surely you have more respect for me than this?”

“Don’t assume sympathy, there is no respect you deserve or can expect to receive from me. You will die, remember 1873?” The grip on my arm is painful, but it doesn’t bother me, my thoughts are divided between history and reality. “Deiter, is an ancient name, long forgotten Master. We are living in a modern world are we not and I’ve searched long and hard through adversity and heartbreak to find you. My wife and child gone, you took them, and there is no forgiveness in my cold heart that I grant you for that selfish need.”

“Oh, come come my old friend, we could have spent the rest of our days together – as family. You knew that Deiter, yet you turned your back on all we had to offer. Am I to blame for your disenchantment?” He says with regret in his dark eyes.

“I despised what you had become Master, merciless, ruthless with an arrogant self-preservation with no remorse or regret for the death of any living thing, and you chose to destroy my family and that I cannot forgive or reconcile against you. Those lives were more precious to me than anything I ever had, I survived your mindless game as you know and now I live a half life of purgatory, neither one thing or the other. Stuck in a world of immortality, but human. How does that work Master, what cruel fate cast that sour spell upon my soul – answer me that?”

“You were partially immune Deiter, a freak of nature and you survived all that tradition could throw at you. How lucky you are, no insatiable appetite, no lust for the life blood of the innocent! And you complain, you have no right, that is selfish of you – you happen to have the benefits but none of the disease. You make me sick Deiter and yet you accuse me of being the monster, you need to wake up and see the reality of your divine position.” There is a smug arrogance to his smile.

“Where are my wife and child Master – you need to grant me that one wish before you die?”

“Oh safe, happy, living their lives as best they are able. I care for them Deiter – you need not be concerned. You lead a charmed life now, let it go and forget the past, it is but history.”

“If life was only that simple Master – but it is not, it is history you are right, and it needs redemption, and I am the redeemer!”

I twist to the side and land on my back, the man holding my arm follows me down and I get my feet under his chest, one quick push sends him backwards and I am free to land that fatal blow. The mallet connects and the stake drives home, but the Master is gone, disappeared in a split second and a golden butterfly drifts away into the night sky on the wind of change. I slump to the floor defeated, on the brink of insanity but lost in the wake of failure and regret at my ineptitude. The Master is gone, escaped my grasp once again by a whisker, how could I, how did I let it happen?

Inside my deep pocket is an incendiary device, I set the timer and place it inside the caravan and in seconds the old plywood and plastic shell is roaring in brilliant flame that licks at the damp night sky with notable delight. A smile returns to my face, the Master has no home, destroyed in minutes, all that is left is a charred smoking chassis of metal, there is no coffin, no residue of the creature I have combed the earth to destroy.

Back at the office the owner looks perplexed when I walk through the door, he has a million unanswered questions on his mind and a look of murder on his face, “What have you done?” It’s a curse that should condemn me.

“We had a little accident I’m afraid, a small fire, but it did no permanent damage – it was over in seconds.” I reply sitting at a vacant desk aware emotion is running high with this man.

“The caravan, right? In the dell? Do you know what you have destroyed with this game of yours? The damage you have caused Mr. Steadfast?” He says moving nervously about the floor.

I take a moment to heighten the experience, the enjoyment flowing over me like the sound of waves on a tropical shore and I savour the entire spectacle. I suspect there is evil and old malevolence at work here and I’m getting a second chance to bring it to a close. “Listen to me for a moment, don’t say another word. Do I care, no I think not? Will you take me to task – again I think not?” In my pocket is a silver cross, it comes out easily and I lift it high into the air. The owner flinches – fear etched across his eyes. Then he shrieks with laughter, rips the metallic cross from my hand and casts it across the office floor. This should not happen, I sit like a statue in the chair wondering what went wrong – I am shocked unable to move.

He comes up close and stares at me across the desk, “Immunity. It’s a gift Mr. Steadfast, a viral throwback to a random mutation from governmental intervention that just didn’t work out like it was planned – they all died violently didn’t they, just like you should have done tonight – but we survived and cap in hand we thanked them vigorously for our new enhancements and left.” He speaks fluently like an old man in a young skin, a new intelligence spewing from his rhetoric.

“I was there, but you know that? Porton Down nineteen fifty-four, I remember the cold winter days and the agonising nights trying to come to terms with my justification to live a normal life. I never did reconcile myself to that, but at least light doesn’t hurt me, neither silver, but there is still the immortality – but you – who would have guessed? And your father, what became of him?” I ask genuinely interested of his welfare.

“My father?” He laughs heartily knowing he’s the sole recipient of a secret, “Ah yes my father, there are some things you don’t know Mr. Steadfast, certain departments at Porton Down you did not get the privilege to be involved with – but I was, not willingly you understand, but never the less it left me with improvements you have not.” He moves away, pulls a cigarette from a packet, lights it and draws on it heavily, the smoke almost obscuring his face. “You see, I love the immortality, the daylight hours and all the other difficulties we managed to overcome, but . . . “ He sucks heavily on the cigarette again, the smoke blue and swirling in the unnatural light of the office, “I am the son, the father and my sister and mother should I choose to be.” In the glow of the dim bulb his face twists and turns, hair gets longer, shorter, he becomes unrecognisable. “I can be who I want to be, the ultimate shapeshifter, safe from all those prying eyes. This mask of conspiracy I wear with pride and I intent to use it. Are you proud Mr. Steadfast, are you safe from the hunters who want us dead?” I do not answer that question. “No – I thought not.” He states as his face returns to the visible image I recognise.

“Surprising and arrogant as it may seem, you are just in my way, I don’t care about your past and I care even less about the agenda you have for the future, because you are not my prey, we are the same animal granted but I have no issue with you. You’re just an annoyance in my quest. Tell me where the Master is and I’ll trouble you no further, you can be free to do what the hell you want.” I say angrily.

The owner looks at me from the corner of his eye, a strange expression on his shadowy face. “Oh, he’s here alright, somewhere on the caravan site. Hiding no doubt, I have no idea where, but you are free to search wherever you want – don’t let me stop you.”

I hate that pathetic grin, it’s not new to me. The hammer and stake pull easily from my coat pocket. It may not work, but it’s all I have in these final seconds and I make the leap towards the owner like a coiled snake attacking innocent prey. The office floor is hard, it hurts my face and chest as I make contact, I spin over quickly onto my back to see that golden butterfly disappearing into the gloom of the high ceiling and is gone in a swirl of blue smoke.