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told. He was actually due to visit with Carol again in the morning.
    Carol had almost lost her own life. Sean was her doctor, a concerned family friend who could explain things to her husband, Phil's brother, and he was in the loop on everything that happened, but in the hospital everything was out of his control, and he hated it.
    "Is everything okay with Carol and the baby?" Sean asked quickly. "Has the hospital contacted you? Do you need me there?"
    "No. Nothing's changed there, no more than you told us earlier. This is something entirely different."
    Sean glanced at the patient on his sofa and crossed to shut the door on the front room.
    "It's fine, come over. What's wrong, Phil?" Sean winced at the sigh he could hear down the phone line.
    "Tell you when I get there."
    "I'll get the beer ready."
    "Sod beer, I need whisky."
    Phil rang off, and for a few seconds, Sean held the receiver to his ear. Phil didn't really drink a lot of spirits, only resorting to it when things were bad. Unfortunately for Phil, his sister Diane, and his brother Charlie, bad things happening were frequent occurrences. He checked once more on the sleeping Daniel and then sat in the kitchen, waiting for Phil, turning over in his head what could have happened to send his friend to drink.
    Sean met Phil at the door, worries spinning in his head. His friend looked fine, maybe a little pale, but not hurt, certainly not in physical need for a doctor. Phil didn't say a word, just grabbed at the whisky on the counter and poured way over a double into the crystal tumbler, downing in it one swallow. Sean hadn't seen him like this with alcohol since his Cambridge days. This was serious.
    "What the hell has happened?"
    "You are not going to believe this. I don't think I even believe it. God, there was no way I was going to sit around in a circle holding hands talking about it. I can't bear that sodding place." Daniel listened to the words. The place, he assumed, was Westford Castle, home of the Fitzwarrens, an old rambling folly with very little left habitable apart from the renovated gate house.
    "Start from the beginning," Sean encouraged, pouring another small glass of whisky for his friend. "Just take a deep breath and try and explain."
    "Charlie got a psychic."
    "Another one?" Sean asked tiredly. When was Phil's brother going to stop with this? He was doing exactly what their father had done, putting faith in the unknown as the reason for all the bad things that happened to the Fitzwarren family.
    "Nah, this one is seriously for real, an actual living breathing descendant of the Curtesses."
    "What? How do you know?"
    "Went under in some kind of trance—guy called Mark Renfrew, nice guy—and connected to something, a presence in the south tower. He'd been bleeding from his nose in the courtyard over the curse stone. Said he saw a man in the tower and had a description that seemed real enough. Breeches and black boots, long hair, the whole thing, wearing lace, with a beard. Mark said it was Sir Belvedere, said the man was trapped there." Sean knew about the curse, the one that Jonathan Curtess placed on Sir Belvedere. Everyone in the village knew the stories, the old tales that were passed from one generation to another. Phil took another long swallow of fiery alcohol and coughed, "I've never seen anything like it."
    "What happened?"
    "He came out of the fugue, said that what he knew couldn't help with the bloody curse, but Charlie… and Mark's boyfriend… me… We were watching, recording and… Shit." He stopped and pulled out a small video camera from his pocket and fiddled with controls, passing it to Sean, who took it curiously. "Watch this."
    He saw a man he didn't recognise, the psychic he assumed, lying back in a sliver of sun, head back and his eyes closed. The scene was odd, maybe because of the light that filtered in through the windows, and he was concentrating on dust motes dancing across the psychic's face when suddenly a burst of static