Chapter 1
It was a warm, lazy night in late June, when the grave keeper of Little Hangleton, Oliver Tutshill, went on his evening patrol. The moon kept disappearing behind the vapoury clouds, and the stench of death was heavy in the musty air. He had done this same patrol every evening for the last 40 years, and not once had he found any cause for concern. He passed the great white mausoleum, bearing the initials, T.M.R. None of the folk living in the village knew anybody with these initials, yet nearly 20 years ago, a huge tomb was erected to a man of that name.
Rumours had been of a relative of the Riddles, who all lived and died in nearby Great Hangleton, but if there was such a relative, why hadn't they lived in the Riddle House when they had been alive? There where few people alive today who could remember the Riddles, Oliver was one of those few. He had been just 8 at the time, when a young man had asked directions to the Riddle house. He had looked very like young Tom, the son of the Riddles. He never returned after their death, he must have been there when it happened, and even to this day, Oliver would swear it was him that had done it. But nobody cared any longer, it was a 70 year old murder case, and even the murderer was probably long dead.
He shone his torch light in through the iron gates of the marble tomb, the beam reflected off the cool white walls, and hit Oliver in the face like a shining punch. Then, out of nowhere, he heard a deafening crash, like shattering stone. He shone his torch towards the single grave in the mausoleum, and screamed. The lid of the marble grave had slid off the coffin. There was someone alive inside. A green light jet of light hit Oliver like a bullet, and he was no more.
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