When I opened my eyes, I found myself in the chapel. My head was hurting and I felt as if I were going to be sick. I was sitting on the back row of benches with my back resting against the cold stone wall, facing towards the confessional box. On each side of it were two large candles.

    Morgan was standing in front of the box, facing directly towards me. 'Well, Tom, I've business to attend to first. But we'll talk about this afterwards.'

    T need to get back,' I said, finding it hard to form the words. 'If I don't, Mr Gregory will wonder where I am.'

    'Let him wonder. What does it matter what he thinks? You won't ever be going back ... You're my apprentice now and I've got a job for you to do tonight.'

    With a smile of triumph, Morgan walked into the confessional, using the priest's doorway on the left. I could no longer see him. The candles cast their light outwards into the chapel but the two doorways were absolutely dark oblongs.

    I tried to stand and make a run for it but I felt too weak and my legs weren't working properly yet. My head pounded and my vision felt blurred after the blow to my head, so all I could do was sit there, trying to collect my wits and hoping that I wasn't going to be sick.

    After a few moments the first of Morgan's congregation arrived. Two women came in, and as each one crossed the threshold, I heard the clink of metal upon metal. I hadn't noticed it before, but there was a copper collection plate to the left of the door and each dropped a coin into it before taking their seats. Then, without a glance in my direction, keeping their heads bowed, they sat down in one of the front benches.

    The benches began to fill but I noticed that everyone who came into the chapel left their lantern outside. The congregation were mostly women - the few men present were relatively old. Nobody spoke. We waited in silence but for the clink of coins and the rattle of the plate. At last, when most of the seats were full, the door seemed to close by itself. Either that or somebody outside had pushed it.

    Now the only light came from the candles at either side of the confessional box. There were a few coughs, somebody in front cleared their throat and then came an expectant hush in which you could have heard a pin drop. It was just as it had been in the darkened room at Moor View Farm. I felt as if my ears were going to pop. Suddenly I shivered. A coldness was creeping towards me from the box. Morgan was drawing upon the power he'd gained by trying to raise Golgoth.

    Into the silence Morgan's voice suddenly called out very loudly. 'Sister of mine! Sister of mine, are you there?'

    In answer came three loud raps on the floor of the chapel, so loud that the whole building seemed to quiver, followed by a long-drawn-out shuddering sigh that came from the darkness of the penitent's doorway.

    'Leave me be! Let me rest!' came the plaintive plea of a girl. This was hardly more than a whisper, but filled with anguish, the source of the girl's voice again that dark confessional doorway. Morgan's sister was a lingerer and was under his control. She didn't want to be here.

    He was making her suffer but the congregation didn't know that, and I sensed the nervousness, anticipation and excitement of the people about me as they waited for Morgan to summon family and friends they'd lost to death.

    'Obey me first. Then you may rest!' boomed the voice of Morgan.

    As if in response to those words, a white shape drifted forward out of the darkness to be framed in the penitent's doorway. Although Eveline had drowned herself when she was about sixteen, the spirit looked hardly older than Alice. Her face, legs and bare arms were as white as the dress she was wearing. It clung to her body as if saturated with water and her hair was limp and wet. That drew a gasp of astonishment from the congregation, but the thing that attracted my gaze was her eyes. They were large and luminous and utterly sad. I'd never looked upon a face so filled with grief as that of Eveline's ghost.

    'I am here. What do you want?'

    'Are there others with you? Others who wish to speak to someone in this gathering?'

    'There are some. Close at hand is a child-spirit who goes by the name Maureen. She would speak with Matilda, her dearest mother...'

    At that a woman in the front bench came to her feet and held out her arms in supplication. She seemed to be trying to speak but her body was shaking with emotion and only a groan escaped her lips. The figure of Eveline faded back into the darkness and something else moved forwards.

    'Mother? Mother?' cried a new female voice from the penitent's box. This time, it was that of a very young child. 'Come to me, Mother. Please, please! I miss you so much...'

    At that, the woman left her place and began to stagger towards the confessional box, still holding out her arms. There was a sudden intake of breath from the congregation, and immediately I saw why. A pale shape was just visible in the darkness of the right-hand doorway. It looked like a young girl, no older than four or five, with long hair falling down over her shoulders.

    'Hold my hand, Mother! Please hold my hand!' cried the child and a small white hand came out of the darkness of the doorway. It reached towards the woman, who fell to her knees and seized it, eagerly pulling it to her lips.

    'Oh, your little hand is so cold, so bitterly cold!' cried the woman and she began to weep, her anguished sobs and wails filling the whole chapel. This went on for long minutes, until at last the hand was withdrawn into the doorway and the mother returned unsteadily to her seat.

    After that there was more of the same. Sometimes adults, sometimes other children materialized within the darkness of the penitent's doorway. There were glimpses of shadow shapes, pale faces and, more rarely, a hand outstretched into the candlelight. And almost always there was a strong emotional reaction from the relative or friend who made contact.

    After a while I began to feel sickened by the spectacle, wishing for it to end. Morgan was a clever, dangerous man, using the power of Golgoth to bind these poor spirits to his will. As I listened to the anguish of the living and the torment of the dead, in my head I remembered hearing the clink of money as it rattled into the copper collection plate.

    At last it came to an end. The congregation filed out of the chapel and the door slammed shut behind them, seemingly as if propelled by an invisible hand.

    Morgan didn't come out of the confessional box immediately but gradually the cold began to fade. When he did walk out and approach me, there were beads of sweat on his brow.

    'How's that father of mine after the wild goose chase I sent him on?' Morgan asked with a smirk. 'Did the old fool enjoy his walk to Piatt Farm?'

    'Mr Gregory isn't your father,' I said quietly, coming shakily to my feet. 'Your real father's name was Edwin Furner, a local tanner. Everybody knows the truth but you can't face it. You just tell lie after lie. Let's go down to Adlington now and ask a few people. Let's ask your mother's sister - she still lives there. If they all say the same then I might just start to believe you. But I don't think they will. You're a father yourself - the father of lies! And you've told so many that now you're starting to believe them!'

    Livid with rage, Morgan swung a punch in my direction. I tried to get out of the way but I was still groggy and my reactions were far too slow. His fist caught my temple again, in almost the same place as last time. I fell, cracking the back of my head against the stones.

    I didn't quite lose consciousness this time, but I was dragged to my feet and his face came very close to mine. I could taste blood in my mouth and one of my eyes was almost closed, so swollen that I could hardly see through it. But the expression on Morgan's face was clear enough and I didn't like what I saw. His mouth was twisted, his eyes bright and wild. It looked more like the face of a savage animal than a man.