The First Instalment


Welcome to The Interactive Novel, the novel that allows you the reader to decide what happens during the novel. At the end of each weekly instalment will be at least one poll where you will decide either what happens next, a setting, or character to be introduced. Whatever option receives the most votes decides what happens.

All Votes Close Sunday October 28th at 8pm GMT


Wednesday, 19th September 1860

With heavy gables and small windows, Church House looked more like a prison than a domestic property. A blanket of ivy covered the front wall, its tendrils growing over the sills and eaves as is it smothered the building. Two brick chimneys rose from each side of the building like horns sprouting from the roof. A pair of jackdaws were perched on the left chimney throwing twigs down the stack.

Waiting for us beside the front gate was a nervous looking man. He held his hat in his hands, wringing it as if trying to extract water from it, while he looked in every direction except at the house behind him. Our cab stopped beside him, and he smiled with relief as the Professor climbed down to greet him.

“Professor Ashcroft,” the man said offering his hand.

“You must be Mr Roth,” the Professor said giving his hand a curt shake.

“Yes, sir. Did you have a pleasant trip?”

“Apart from the traffic. I swear London is getting more and more congested every day. I hope this underground railway they are building works and gets half the people off the road.”

The Professor paid the driver while I unloaded our luggage; my modest kit bag, the Professor case and his small trunk full of books. Then the driver snapped on the reigns and the cab trundled off leaving us in front of our house for the night. The Professor turned back to Mr Roth.

“Now are we all prepared?”

“Yes, sir. Me, and my lad, have put some chairs and a table in the front room like you asked. We put some lanterns and candles on the table. We didn’t light the fire not knowing what time you would get here. But…”

Mr Roth wringed his cap tightly in his hands. “We don’t think it’s a good idea you stay the night. Nobody has spent the night in that house for years and the last person that did was found dead the next morning.”

The Professor laughed. “I assure you there is nothing to worry about. It is just an old building. I am sure Nigel and I can cope with one night of roughing it.”

“It’s not that, sir,” Mr Roth said tightening the grip on his hat. “There is something in that house. It gave us the creeps moving the furniture in for you this morning. It’s bad enough going in there during the day but I wouldn’t go in at night.” He pointed to the churchyard over the road from us. “I would sleep amongst the graves, but after dark I would not enter that house for the crown jewels.”

“Then Queen Victoria does not have to fear you claiming them,” the Professor said. “Now in all seriousness my good fellow, we have nothing to worry about. I have been investigating the supernatural for several years and I am yet to see or experience anything that cannot be scientifically explained. You can rest easy knowing that in that house tonight it will only be myself, Nigel, possibly some rats or mice, and our two feathered friends up there blocking the chimney. Now I believe you are going to bring us an evening meal?”

Mr Roth bit his bottom lip and dropped his gaze. “Well we are going to bring you some food but… I can’t go back into the house… so I was just going to knock on the door and pass it to you.”

“I have just told you there is nothing to be afraid of.”

“Maybe your right, but I ain’t going in there after dark.”

The Professor let out an exasperated sigh. “Very well. Knock on the door and Nigel will come and get it. Bring the food about half seven. Until then I would like to settle myself in. Come along Nigel, let us see our room for the night.”

The Professor marched off towards the house leaving me to struggle with the bags. I staggered along the garden path towards the front door. The gardens were just as dilapidated as the house. In the last days of summer, the once green growth of spring had turned into a brown jungle of weeds that grew over the path.

The Professor stood before the heavy wooden door. He had his left hand resting on the flaked paint as if having second thoughts about entering. Entirely understandable as Church House was rumoured to be haunted. Nobody had lived in the house for years. It had been recently sold at auction and the new buyer was intending on demolishing the property and building a row of terrace houses in its place. But then his surveyor had experienced something terrifying within the property. The new buyer being a friend of the Professor had told him the tale. The Professor insisting there was no such thing as ghosts had agreed to a wager to spend the night in the property. Of course, that meant I would also be enduring a night in the haunted house.

I drew closer and saw the Professor was not having second thoughts. He was struggling to turn the key in the rusty lock. Rattling the door, he turned the key and the door swung open to reveal the dark uninviting interior. There was something unpleasant in the stale damp air that wafted from within the house. It smelt of decay and something foul and rotten.

“Just the smell of mould,” the Professor said cheerfully. “Once we get a fire burning it will soon improve the odour.”

I followed him into a hall with a wooden staircase against the left wall. The hall was devoid of all furnishings, having been stripped from the house long ago. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling and a film of dust and dirt covered the floorboards. Footprints from the men bringing our supplies disappeared into a door on the right.

I shuddered. The house felt cold. The air was heavy almost oppressive. I felt as if I was intruding, as if I was trespassing. I wondered if the Professor could sense the hostile atmosphere. He headed towards the front room without any indication that he felt uncomfortable. He disappeared into the room leaving me alone in the hall. I hurried after him having no intention of letting him out of my sight.

The last of the afternoon sunlight shorn through the large bay window at the front of the room. The ivy had been cleared from the window leaving brown streaks and small stems on the thin glass. The large room was dominated by a granite fireplace. The hearth was a colossal monolith that looked as if had been dragged from some Neolithic stone circle. Accompanying a clock, vases of dried lavender had been put on the mantel piece in a feeble attempt to soften the damp stale smell. There also had been a hasty attempt to clean the room. The cobwebs had been brushed aside and the dust swept up, but this did little to brighten the flaking grubby white paint or the huge damp patch on the interior wall. In the centre of the room a stained green rug had been laid out beneath two loungers. They had even hung an old pair of faded mustard yellow curtains in front of the bay window. Against the wall furthest from the window was a small table and two chairs.

“This does not look too bad,” the Professor said. “Once you have got a fire going I expect it will almost be homely.”

Mr Roth had left some kindling already stacked in the fireplace. It was only a question of lighting the fire and then once it had taken hold adding a couple of the logs he had stacked beside the hearth. He had also filled the coal scuttle and provide a kettle to hang out over the flames. Leaving the fire to warm the room I lit the candles and lanterns. Now bathed in light the room felt more comforting. I still had a feeling of unease, but it had been buried beneath the warmth of the fire.

The Professor had a book out and having settled into one of the loungers had made himself at home. Following his example, I sat at the table to read and write notes on the work of the philosopher Thomas Hobbs. Even though I found the subject dull it managed to drag me away from the house and the hour’s ticked by without incident.

At approximately seven thirty there was a knock at the front door.

“That will be our supper,” the Professor said glancing up at the clock on the mantle. He lowered his head back to his book making it clear he expected me to collect it.

Through the bay window the sky was darkening, and it would not be long before night had settled. In the grey twilight the hall would be dark. I picked up a lantern and headed out into the hall. Stepping out of the warm front room was like plunging into a river. The cold oppressive atmosphere felt like a physical barrier reminding me of the house’s reputation. I left the door open behind me, leaving a warm welcoming refuge to flee back to. Then keeping my eyes fixed on the front door, not daring to look anywhere else in case I saw something I wished I hadn’t, I rushed across the hall.

A pale boy, a year or so younger than myself, stood by the front gate with a wicker basket in his hand. He had knocked and frightened of what might open the door retreated to the edge of the property. He didn’t relax upon seeing me.

“Is that our supper?” I said from the door. He nodded but remained at the gate. “Do you want to bring it over?”

“I would rather not, sir,” he said. “Could you come and get it from me.”

Standing with my back in the hall and fearing what could be lurking behind me I was in no mood to argue. I just wanted to grab the basket and get back to the front room. I hurried up the path towards him. Not in the mood for conversation. I muttered a curt thankyou and took the basket from him. I then made my way back along the path towards the dark opening. The entrance was like a mouth threatening to swallow me.
You’re just being silly, I told myself. There is nothing in that house but a few rats and your imagination. With my lantern thrust out in front of me I walked into the hall

A figure rose out of the shadows in front of me.

My heart leapt into my throat. I nearly dropped the basket, the lantern and ran from the house, but the light illuminated a familiar face.

“Relax, Nigel. There is no need to be so jumpy,” the Professor said.

Only the Professor would think of lurking in the shadows in a haunted house.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you there,” I gasped.

“You left the door open. There was an awful draft blowing into the room. I thought I would close it before the room got cold.” He sniffed the air. “Something smells good. I am ravishing. Let us eat before it gets cold.”

I followed him back into the front room. My heart was still pounding. If it had been anybody else, I would have thought they had been deliberately hiding in the dark to frighten me. I placed the basket down on the table and moved my books. The Professor rummaged through the basket and took out a bottle of whisky.

“This will make the perfect nightcap,” he said unscrewing the lid and taking a sniff. He put the whisky to one side and pulled out a large pie and a pot full of boiled carrots, swede and potatoes. He took two plates from the basket and then sat down leaving me to dish the food out.

We ate our meal in silence. I didn’t want to invite conversation. The Professor would have no qualms in telling me tales of the spirits the foolish locals believed haunted this house. He was convinced they didn’t exist and had nothing to fear. I on the other hand didn’t want to feed my imagination.

A flicker of movement outside the bay window caught my eye.

I spun round.

There was nothing there. Just the darkness of the night. I could have sworn I had seen something.

“Is there something the matter?” the Professor asked his folk pausing before his mouth.

“I thought I saw something outside.”

“Did you?”

“No, sir.”

I returned to the game pie with a diminished appetite. I prodded an overcooked carrot with my fork. Something flickered past the window again. I kept prodding at the carrot pretending I had not noticed. I spotted it again out of the corner of my eye. It was the briefest flicker of movement as if someone or something was rushing past the window.

“Would you cut me another slice of pie, please?”

I looked up. The Professor had his plate thrust out towards me. He certainly didn’t have any problems eating and with his back to the window had not noticed the flickering movement outside. I dished out another helping of pie and passed it back to him. The movement flickered past the window again.

“May I be excused to close the curtains?” I asked.

The Professor looked at the window. “Still think you are seeing things?”

He would only ridicule me and insist that I keep the curtains open if I told the truth. “No, sir, it’s just that I think I feel a draft coming through the window sill.”

“Then you had better close them.”

Looking at my feet I crossed the room. There was a faint draft of air blowing through the sill. Without looking I grabbed the curtains and snatched them shut. I instantly felt reassured. I no longer had to worry what was lurking outside. The warmth of the fire and the glow of the candles had turned the front room in to a sanctuary. I felt confident that as long as I remained in this room I was safe. The ghost or whatever malicious presence haunted this house would not enter and as far as I was concerned it could do whatever it wanted in the rest of the house.

I returned to the table. My appetite had not returned and I passed on the fruit cake that the Professor greedily ate.

“Would you like me to pour you a whisky, sir?” I asked.

“Make sure you put plenty of water in it. I want to keep my wits about me.”

I poured a short measure of whisky, then double the amount of water, and passed it to him. Finishing his slice of cake, he returned to his chair by the fire leaving me to clean away our supper. I tidied away the plates while I waited for the kettle to boil. Once the ketal had boiled I made two cups of tea before returning to my books.

Until eleven I worked away only stopping to add more fuel to the fire. I was just thinking about make another cup of tea when something creaked from the floor above.

I turned to the Professor. “Did you hear that, sir?”

He looked up from his book. “Hear what?”

“The floor above us creaked.”

“It is an old house. They often make creaking noises. Nothing to be alarmed about.” The floor creaked again, and he looked up at the ceiling. “Only the floorboards. I expect the heat from our fire has warmed them and they are creaking as they dry out. Now how about we have another cup of tea.”

The floor above us continued to creak as I placed the kettle over the fire. The Professor had returned to his book and was ignoring the creaks. He had formed his explanation and had no intention of questioning the noise further. I on the other hand glanced nervously upward with every creak. It sounded as if somebody was walking about above our heads.

The creaks ceased as suddenly as they had begun. The house returned to its eerie stillness. All was quiet apart from the cracking of logs on the fire and the ticking of the clock.

I made a pot of tea and poured the Professor and myself a cup before returning to my books. I did another half an hour of working at the table and then finding the chair uncomfortable decided to move to the lounger. I settled in the chair beside the Professor with the new Dickens serial Great Expectations.

There were several thuds out in the hallway. It sounded like somebody was running up the stairs.

“Rats,” the Professor said without looking up.

“Rats?” I said incredulously.

“Yes rats,” the Professor said turning his page. “They can make a lot of noise for such small animals.”

“They would have to be the size of a dog to make that much noise.”

“You are exaggerating Nigel. It sounded louder because of how quiet the rest of the house is. I suspect the rodents are not used to sharing this property with anybody else.”

I didn’t care what he said. The floorboards creaking above us had nothing to do with the heat from our fire, and whatever had just run up the stairs was not a rat. There was defiantly something else in this house and it seemed determined to not to let us forget it was there. I glanced at the clock on the mantle. It had only just gone midnight. We had at least another six hours until dawn.

The house remained silent until nearly one. Then there was more running on the stairs followed by what sounded like a door slamming shut. I looked at the Professor.

“Just rats,” he said.

“Rats don’t go around slamming doors.”

The Professor lowered his book. “If you do not believe me, go have a look for yourself.”

“You want me to go out there? On my own?” I asked mortified at the suggestion.

The Professor sighed with frustration. “Very well, it seems I will have to come along and hold your hand.” He placed his book on the arm of his chair, picked up the lantern and crossed the room to the door. He turned back to where I was still sat in my chair. “Come along, Nigel. Let us go and find your imaginary ghost.”

Reluctantly I climbed to my feet. I should have kept my mouth shut.

Back in the hallway the oppressive atmosphere felt like a physical weight pressing down upon us. I shivered in the cool air.

“Sir, you’re right. It was just rats,” I said. “Let’s go back in the front room where it is warmer.”

The Professor shook his head. “We are going upstairs. Only once you have seen the house is empty will you stop believing in all this ghost nonsense.”

The stairs creaked and groaned as we climbed them. I kept a step behind the Professor not wanting to step out of the light cast by the lantern in his hand. The stairs opened on to a long thin corridor. To our left was a gaping hole in the floorboards blocking access to the rooms at the far end of the house.

“Best not go that way,” the Professor said. He went into the room above where we were staying. Not wanting to be alone I hurried after him.

The room was empty. Like the rest of the house all the furnishings had been long stripped from the room. Broken glass lay in front of the window and the blanket of ivy had curled up into the room, creeping along the walls in stunted vines ending in brown dead leaves.

“See nothing is…”

A door slammed in the corridor.

The Professor frowned and waved for me to follow him. We went out into the corridor and the Professor reached for the door to the room opposite us. I tensed ready for what was lurking on the other side. The Professor swung open the door.

The room was empty.

“Just the wind,” the Professor said. “Now are you happy that we are alone in this house?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. At that moment I would have agreed to anything if it meant getting back into the front room.

The Professor led the way back to the stairs. As I reached the stairs I glanced back at the room we had just left. The door was rattling in its frame. I let out a sharp gasp.

“Now what is it?” the Professor said stopping halfway down the stairs.

The door suddenly swung open.

“Nothing, sir,” I said hurrying after him before something emerged from the room.

We returned to the front room. The Professor sat back down and resumed reading his book. Rattled I picked up my book. I tried to ignore the occasional thud on the stairs, the creaking of the floorboards, and the banging of doors. But I couldn’t relax. I sat in my chair rigid and tense. Then shortly before two the house fell silent again. I hoped that was the end of it, that the ghost had admitted failure in its attempts to frighten us and would leave us in peace for the rest of the night.

I had been staring at the same page for ten minutes with blurry eyes when the Professor rose to his feet. He gulped down the rest of his whisky, put the empty glass on the table, and then picked up the lantern.

“Are you going somewhere, sir?”

“I am going to relieve myself. It is all that tea we have been drinking.”

My bladder felt on the verge of bursting. I was ignoring the discomfort. To empty it meant leaving the room and I would rather wet myself than confront whatever was lurking in the rest of the house.

“You’re leaving the room,” I said.

“I cannot jolly well go in here. I am only popping out into the garden. I will be a matter of minutes.”

With that he disappeared out the door. Seconds later I heard the front door close and I was alone in the house. I swallowed nervously. I just had to stay calm. There was nothing to be frightened of. Besides the house was silent. Eerily silent.

The front door closed again, followed by the light pad of footsteps across the hall. I tensed as the door slowly opened into the room. To my relief in walked the Professor. He had returned quicker than I had expected, but without the lantern.

“Sir, what happened to your lantern?”

“I dropped the blasted thing and broke it,” he muttered.

He poured himself a generous measure of whisky and then returned to his seat. I noticed he had not added water to the glass. Had he witnessed something that had frightened him and wanted a strong drink to settle his nerves? Except the rest of his demeanour was calm and composed. He certainly didn’t look like a man that had just seen a ghost.
I shivered. I had goose bumps on my arm. The Professor must have left the door open long enough for a draft to chill the room. It would also explain the rotting damp smell that overpowered the smoke from the candles and fire.

The front door rattled. At first it was a gentle shake, but then it grew more and more violent until it sounded like something was trying to break it open.

“The wind?” I cynically suggested.

The Professor shrugged. “Sounds like somebody trying to break the door down to me.”
I forced myself to laugh at his poor attempt at humour. The Professor stared at me stony faced as if he hadn’t meant it to be a joke. I cut my fake laugh short. His comment had to have been made in mirth. He certainly did not believe that there was anybody trying to force their way into the property.

The door rattling in its frame stopped and the house fell silent. The Professor craned his head towards the front door as if expecting something.

There was a loud thud.

The Professor nodded to himself then turned to stare at the flames as the door thudded again. It sounded as if somebody or something was trying to force it open.

“Something is defiantly banging against the door, sir.”

“It’s nothing you need to concern yourself with,” the Professor said as the door thudded again.

“But sir, what if it’s the…” I fell silent knowing he would only scorn me if I suggested it was a ghost. “What if it’s one of the villagers trying to contact us about an emergency.”

He turned to me with a cold stare and with an equally hostile tone said, “I know what it is and it’s nothing to concern you.”

I shrank back. I had never seen the Professor in this frame of mind. Perhaps being confronted with the possibility that there was a ghost had made him confrontational. Not wanting to become the outlet to vent his anger and frustration upon I fell silent. The door continued to thud several more times and then it fell silent as if whoever was trying to break in had given up.

“Why are you here?” the Professor suddenly asked.

“Sorry, sir?” I said wondering if I had misheard him.

There was a tap at the window. The curtains glowed as if there was a light behind them.

“Sir, the window.”

“It’s nothing.”

There was a rapid tapping at the window. I turned to the Professor. He could not deny the tapping and the glow of the curtains.

His gaze was fixed on me seemingly oblivious to what was happening on the other side of the curtains. “Why are you here?”

“Sir, what about the window? I think there is somebody out there.”

“Answer the question,” he snarled through gritted teeth. “Why are you here?”

“I am not sure what you mean. Do you mean as in like a philosophical way? Like the meaning of life?”

My response angered him further. In frustration he squeezed so hard on the glass it shattered in his hands, splashing him in whisky and embedding a shard of glass into his palm. He plucked the shard from his pale flesh and flung into the fire. “I will ask one more time. Why are you here? Why are you in my house?”

“But, sir you know the answer to that,” I said confused and frightened. For some strange reason I was more afraid of the man in the chair opposite me than the strange light and constant tapping on the glass behind the curtains. “You made a wager with the owner that we would stay the night in the house and prove…”

I caught sight of his palm and fell silent. There was a gaping hole where the shard of glass had slashed through the skin. But the wound was dry. There was no blood, just torn flesh as if the glass had cut the palm of a rag doll. I stepped away from the man in the chair and then I heard a voice from the window.

“Nigel! Nigel!”

The voice was muffled but there was no mistaking that of belonging to the Professor.

“Nigel, I have locked myself out,” the Professor called from the other side of the widow. “Can you hear me? I need you to open the door.”

But if the Professor was out there then who was in the room with me…

I spun back to the man in the chair. Except what was in the chair was not a living man and it looked nothing like the Professor. The spectre had the appearance of a man in his sixties, with thinning hair and a shadow of stubble. Its dark eyes were overshadowed by the bags around them. Its sallow skin was pulled tight and taunt over its skull. It radiated an intimidating aura of hate as if it despised me for living.

“This is my house and you are not invited,” the spectre said rising to its feet.

I backed away to the window as the spectre floated towards me.

“You have trespassed in my property and trespassers must be dealt with.”

Wailing the spectre shot across the room at me. It moved far faster than I could move. It ploughed into me, lifting me from my feet and throwing me against the wall. I slumped to the ground. The spectre loomed over me. Its thin lips pulled back in a snarl of rage. Cowering I waited for its cold grasp…

There was a smash of glass and the spectre vanished. The curtains were flung open and an annoyed looking Professor clambered in through the broken window.

“Did you not hear me calling for you to open the…” He paused seeing me on the floor.

“What are you doing lying on the floor?”

“I was err…” My mind was numb. I couldn’t think of any reason apart from the truth which the Professor would not believe.

The Professor frowned. “Why are your trousers wet?”

It was then that I became aware of the dampness in my trousers. At that moment I wanted the spectre to return, or perhaps even the devil itself, anything but deal with the shame of sitting slumped against the wall in a puddle of my own urine.

“You have wet yourself!” the Professor said shaking his head. “I thought you were house trained. I am sure you go to new lengths to test my patience. You had better go and get yourself sorted.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Nigel, next time do not try to hold it in.”

Mortified I retreated into a corner of the room to change out of my wet clothes. My fear had been replaced with embarrassment, although I should have been happy. Losing my dignity was better than losing my life even if it didn’t feel that way.

The Professor pulled the curtains closed. They flapped in the wind from the open window and a cool draft chilled the room. The Professor sat in his seat uncomfortably.

“My chair is damp,” he murmured. Then he looked at me with realisation. “Did you wet yourself in my chair?”

“No sir… I err… spilt my drink accidently on the seat.”

He looked at me suspiciously, but he didn’t question me any further. Picking up his book he moved over to my chair. I sat down in the chair damp with whisky. My hands were trembling. My embarrassment was waning as the fear returned. All my instincts demanded I ran from the house, but somehow, I managed to pick up my book and pretend nothing had happened.

Until dawn I remained in a tense state of alertness. I was constantly aware of the spectre making its presence known in the rest of the house. Doors would bang, floorboards would groan and there would be feet on the stairs. At first the Professor dismissed the noises as the wind and rats. Then he fell asleep and was completely oblivious to the spectre’s rage. While he slept I gripped the arms of my chair tightly bracing myself for the door to open and for the spectre to return. It didn’t and as the dawn light began to filter into the room the house fell silent.

The Professor awoke a little after seven. Yawning and stretching the stiffness from his limbs he rose from his chair. He glanced around the room and then smiled satisfied with himself.

“See there is no such thing as ghosts. You should have made a wager too. That was the easiest twenty pounds I have ever made.”

Thursday, 20th September 1860


On our return journey to London the Professor was in a jubilant mood. He leant back in his seat smiling happily. He had won the wager and even better had not experienced any evidence that the house was haunted.

I stared gloomily out of the window. I had not slept all night, been terrified by a ghost, and endured the humiliation of wetting myself. Not for the first time I was questioning why I remained the Professor’s assistant. In the eight months since I had started my position I had been stalked by a wraith, attacked by a lake monster, chased by a horde of the dead, hunted by a pack of werewolves and now been terrorised by a ghost. It was amazing I wasn’t a traumatised wreck locked in an asylum.

Watching the streets of London pass by I contemplated whether it was time to resign. I suspected I wasn’t cut out for risking my life and living in a state of fear investigating the supernatural. Perhaps it was time to find a safer career like training to be an accountant. It would be less glamorous, certainly a lot more tedious, but at least I wasn’t going to end up being killed by some paranormal entity.

On reaching the Professor’s house, I was excused for the rest of the day. I headed up to my room on the top floor. On the verge of collapsing with exhaustion I took out a pen and paper.

I had to do it now. If I waited until later, I would lose all my resolve. I sat on the edge of the bed and wrote my letter of resignation.

“Dear Sir,

With heavy regrets, I have come to the conclusion that…”

I woke up with my letter stuck to the side of my face. I pulled the sheet of paper from my skin. The ink had smeared and left smudged marks all over the page.

There was knock at my bedroom door. Before I could call out the door opened, and Gertie stepped inside.

“You look awful,” she said. “What have you been doing? Sleeping in your clothes?”

I looked down at my creased clothes and nodded.

“Well you better get yourself cleaned up. The Professor wants you in his study. He’s got a guest.”

“Who is it?”

“I don’t know. I was just told to come and get you.” She turned to leave. “And Nigel…”


“You had better wipe the ink off your face while you’re at it.”

I closed the door and quickly changed into clean clothes and wiped a dry cloth over my face. Hopefully that had removed the worse of the ink or at the very least it meant that I now looked presentable. I looked down at my smudged resignation letter. Once I had seen what the Professor wanted I would rewrite it and hand it in.

I headed to the Professor’s study unknowing that the Professor’s guest had news that would make me question my future like never before…

What Happens Next is up to YOU!


You decide who the Professor’s guest is, what supernatural incident they invite Professor Ashcroft and his assistant Nigel to investigate, and the setting of the incident.

Unfortunately due to a technical error voting is currently suspended. I am working to rectify this and the interactive novel will be up and running as soon as possible.

The choices with the most votes will decides what happens next, so choose wisely.





All Votes Close Sunday October 28th at 8pm GMT


The choice with the most votes will decide what happens next in The Interactive Novel,
So choose wisely!

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