Death Cry

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on May 23, 2020
Posted in: banshee, birdsong, hope faith God whispers heaven, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, Fairies, Fantasy, fiction, folklore, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Halloween, harbinger of death, Haunted Houses, horror, Ireland's past, legend, memories, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, screams, wailing cry, Witchcraft, Witches, wraiths, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

CHAPTER TWO

 The first night after her parent’s burial was the longest in Annie’s life. Unable to sleep, she lay awake and listened to the steady, rhythmic breathing of her sisters. Twice during the night, she thought she heard sounds coming from her parents’ room, but she knew it was not possible. They were lost to her forever. Crying silently, lest she awake those she loved more than her life, she watched the window, and it was a relief, when the first rays of sunlight crept into the room.

   There was freshly baked bread ready when the children woke, and she gathered eggs from the hen roost behind the cottage. Rose and Dora ate with gusto, scraping the shells in search of the last remaining bits of egg. It was amazing how well they had adjusted to their loss. After washing up and straightening the rooms, she got ready to leave. The children would have to come along with her, as she could not risk leaving them alone. Throwing a shawl around her shoulders, she set off for the deepest part of the forest. Here the berries and herbs were plentiful and untouched by the scavenging birds. It took a few hours to find all the plants she needed, and she arrived at Meg’s cottage with two hot and irritable children in tow.

   After a cool drink, they settled down to play with the assortment of animals Meg had rescued over the years. There was a jackdaw, whose damaged wing made flight impossible and who had become as tame as all the other animals. A dog and six cats made up the rest of the menagerie. The squirrels nesting in the trees beside the cottage came and accepted berries from the children’s outstretched hands, and the odd deer with her fawn in tow stopped by on her meanderings through the forest. All of them, from the smallest creature knew they were safe with Meg, and as she often said, an animal like a child, has to be taught to fear.

While the children played, Meg and Annie got down to the more serious job of mashing and grinding the plants and berries. When the right consistencies were achieved, they placed spoonfuls of the mixture in small pieces of cloth and tied the top of each piece. There were many callers to the cottage that morning, and all were seen by Meg, and given one of the little bundles.

   “The sickness seems to be getting worse,” Meg shook her head. “There have been four deaths in the village overnight and many more are at deaths door.”

This information came from the last caller. Once all the bundles were ready, Annie loaded them into her basket and with a list of names; she set out for the village. Despite their protests, she ordered the children to stay behind with Meg. There was no sense in exposing them to the very real danger of the sickness.

The roads were deserted as she walked along. There was no trundling of farm carts as one might expect, and it was with heavy heart she approached the village. The lack of children playing in the street was a good indicator of how bad things were. She knocked at the first door on her list and was surprised by the hostile greeting she received. The bundle was snatched from her hand without thanks and the door slammed shut. She stood gazing at the wood for a moment before shrugging her shoulders. Maybe the sickness was making everyone cranky. The reception she got at each house was much the same and she was glad when there was only one more to go. This was the home of Jane O Regan. Jane was a widow with four children and had been a lifelong friend of Annie’s mother. The welcome she would receive here would be quite unlike the others. Annie tapped on the house door. A feeble voice bade her enter and she lifted the latch and walked into the gloomy interior. A makeshift bed lay in front of a blazing fire. Jane was sitting in the centre of the bed surrounded by all four of her children and each one was in the grip of some terrible fever.

   “Annie, thank God you’ve come,” Jane brushed a lock of sweat-drenched hair from off her forehead.

   “You should have sent word,” Annie put down her basket and hurried to check on the children.

They were burning up. What little clothes they wore stuck to their skin and had to be peeled off. She ran and fetched water from the well. Dousing the fire, she opened the windows as wide as possible. The heat was a breathing ground for the sickness, and despite Jane’s protests they had a chill, Annie washed down each one of the sweating children. Iris, the youngest child, seemed the most stricken and after mixing the herbs with water Annie spoon-fed her. The child fussed and tried to pull away, but Annie managed to get the spoon between the chattering teeth, and the child was forced to swallow. Each of the children was dosed in the same way and Jane accepted the liquid gladly. Pools of dried vomit stained the blankets, so picking up the children, Annie carried them, one by one, upstairs to their own room. Jane was helped to sit in a chair beside the fire, and Annie gathered up the soiled blankets and threw them outside.

   “God bless you, Annie,” Jane caught her hand. “I don’t know what we’d have done without you.”

   “I’m glad to help, but I wish I’d know sooner.”

   “You had your own troubles; child and I didn’t want to add to them.”

   “Well, I’m here now, and here I’ll stay, until you’re better.”

   “Thank you, child. You’ve no idea what it has been like here. I have not had the strength to walk as far as the well. We would’ve died without you.”

   “There now, don’t take on so,” Annie patted her back. “You’ll feel better when you’ve eaten something.”

   “There’s not a scrap of food in the house. I haven’t been able to do a decent day’s work in months, and to tell the truth, child, there’s not much call for my services now.”

Jane was a seamstress and people were more concerned with saving their money for doctors and medicine, than worrying about their appearance.

   “Never mind,” Annie assured her. “I have some money. I’ll go and buy food.”

This small act of kindness made Jane cry, and Annie was glad when she was once again outside in the fresh air and away from the cloying atmosphere in the house. She bit her lip as she walked towards the only shop in the village. The seven shillings in her pocket was all the money she had in the world. She was well able to farm the land, but without her father’s income from the woodcutting, they would be penniless. Her father was so proud he was not tied to any landlord and his land was his own. He had sworn none of his children would be bonded into service. But that prospect seemed possible now, and Annie was thinking of looking for work in one of the big houses in the area. A position of governess would suit her, having been taught to read and write by her mother. Her education though limited, was enough to secure such a position in this wild area of the country. The only thing holding her back was the fact she was catholic, and anyone rich enough to employ a governess would surely want someone of the protestant religion. Still you never know, she thought, as she swept into the shop, stranger things have happened.

   “Good day to you, Miss. Ryan,” Pat O Malley, the shopkeeper smiled.

Annie felt herself blush. Pat O Malley was always winking at her, when they passed in the street, and she tried to gather her thoughts and ignore his cheeky grin, as she ordered only the basic ingredients she needed. Flour, milk, and some scraps of mutton. The potatoes, carrots, and eggs she could fetch from her own store at home. She would have to go back to Meg’s anyway and ask her to care for her sisters until Jane was well enough to cope. Although she hated leaving them alone so soon, Jane’s need was greater than theirs.

   “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she blushed again, as she realised Pat was speaking to her. “I was miles away.”

   “I said I was sorry to hear about your loss.”

   “Thank you. You are truly kind,” she started to load her purchases into her basket. “How much do I owe you?”

His cheeky grin had returned, as he answered.

   “I’m afraid the prices have gone up a lot. I’ll have to charge you…” he mused. “One kiss.”

   “Why, Mr O Malley,” she pretended to be shocked. “Nothing could be that expensive.”

He laughed at her reply and putting her hands on her hips, she stamped her foot.

   “Pat O Malley be serious for a moment and tell me what I owe you.”

   “Miss Ryan, the very sight of you has made all such thoughts vanish from my head.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, and he held up a hand to still her protests.

   “Take it, with my blessing.”

   “I take nothing for nothing.”

 Annie Ryan had the same proud streak as her parents.

   “Well, bring me half a dozen eggs the next time you’re passing.”

   “A half dozen eggs for all this?”

   “What can I say?” he held up his hands in mock horror. “Eggs are as rare as fairy dust around here.”

Snatching the basket from off the counter, she retorted.

   “I’ll bring them in tomorrow morning. I’d not like to be beholden to you.”

   Aw, now,” his laughter followed her. “Is that anyway to talk to your future husband.”

She knew he had walked to the door and was watching her. Her mother always teased her about Pat, and Annie knew despite the fact he was incredibly old at twenty-eight, that her mother hoped they would make a match. She was still grinning when the voice startled her.

   Good day, cousin. It’s nice to see you and in such good spirits.”

Mary O Brien smiled at Annie’s stunned expression.

   “Why, child, you’d think you’d just seen the Devil himself rather then your own cousin.”

   “Sorry,” Annie managed to stutter. Mary O Brien never passed her the time of day and here she was calling her cousin!

   “I was so sorry to hear about your poor parents passing,” Mary bristled. “And I’d have come to the funeral I assure you. But I have been quite ill myself, and dear Hugh has been such a comfort to me. Why,” her grin was wolfish. “I wouldn’t allow him out of my sight. You understand I’m sure.”

   “Yes, Mrs. O Brien. I understand.”

   “Now, now, dear. You must call me cousin. After all Hugh and I are all the family you have left.”

   “If you’ll excuse me,” Annie tried to walk past her.

   “Yes, of course, my dear.”

Annie could see she had insulted the woman, and she knew Mary O Brien made a very bad enemy. She had heard many tales of her trouble causing in the village.

   “I have to attend to Jane O Regan,” she offered as a token of appeasement. “She and her children are very ill.”

   “Very well,” she seemed to accept this “But I’ll call on you soon.”

Annie nodded; she was glad of the chance to get away. Mary O Brien frightened her, and her dreadful son was even worse. 

Pat O Malley was still watching Annie and saw what happened. He knew what a dangerous woman Mary O Brien was. He had seen many of her acts of cruelty. Always the first to point the finger, and any woman prettier than she was became a likely target. She had caused more rifts in marriages than adultery ever had. With a tongue worthy of the most poisonous snake, she spread her venom across the village. No one could escape her vengeance once she’d set her sights on them. It was rumoured her late husband only died so he could get away from her nagging. Recently she had been complaining about the gypsies who were camped in the woods.

   “They are filthy,” she told anyone who would listen “And I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they were the cause of the sickness.”

Everyone agreed with her except Pat, who pointed out the gypsies arrived well after the sickness started. His observations were answered with an angry glower. Still, she would never go against him. He was too well off. It was easier for her to pick on the poor and the lonely. Her husband had left her well provided for and with too much time on her hands. Rather than use her hours in more productive ways, she chose to cause trouble, and excelled at her chosen profession. She even converted to the protestant religion in order to curry favour with the gentry in the area. It also made life easier for her son. Pat felt a stab of dread at the thought. If anything were to happen to Annie, Hugh stood in line to inherit. Everyone in the village knew Annie’s father willed the cottage and land to her. What was that woman up to; she had never shown an interest in her relationship with the family before? Surely, she was not thinking of making a match with Hugh and Annie? He would never allow such a thing to happen. Hugh had the same streak of cruelty as his mother, and Annie would never survive as his wife. If he were honest, he would have to admit to the stirring of jealousy. He had always loved Annie. She was as kind as she was beautiful, and he was aware that there were many with their eye on her. He would marry her in an instant, but he knew she was not interested in him. It would take someone incredibly special to capture Annie Ryan’s heart.

After dropping off her purchases in Jane’s house and putting the meat on to boil, Annie set off for Meg’s cottage. There were protests from her sisters, but they were half-hearted, as they were happy enough to stay with Meg, especially when she promised to make fudge after Annie left. Meg was sad to hear about Jane’s suffering and plied Annie with more of the medicine, and a list of things to do to speed up its effects. Stopping off at her own cottage, she collected the things she would need for the coming vigil. She also carried as much as she could of the potatoes, carrots and the six eggs for Pat. The shop was closed and shuttered when she arrived back in the village, so she left the eggs wrapped in cloth, outside the door.

Jane’s kitchen was filled with the smell of cooking. Peeling the carrots and potatoes, Annie added them to the bubbling meat and some herbs to flavour the stew. When it was ready, she handed Jane a bowl. Taking a crude wooden tray from off the dresser, she put four more bowls onto it and carried it upstairs. The three older children were already showing signs of recovery and had cooled down. After helping them to sit up, they were able to feed themselves, but little Iris showed no sign of wanting to eat. She lay as though drained of all energy and burning hot. Annie once again, washed her down and gave her more of the mixture to drink, but she was frightened. Her parents had looked the same way as Iris did before they died. Perhaps, the sound of her mother’s voice would encourage the child to eat. Jane had to be helped up the stairs. Annie sat on the side of the bed and Jane lay down beside her child, fussing and talking to her. She begged Iris to try and eat, but it was hopeless. Her little body had suffered much and though she loved her mother and wanted to please her, she could not fight the sickness. Annie tried to still the fire burning inside the child. She spent the night washing her down and making her drink the mixture, but it was hopeless. By morning, the fire died along with the child. It was left to a heart-broken Annie to wake the mother and tell her of the tragedy. It was also Annie’s job to carry the blanket-wrapped bundle to the graveyard, as Jane was too weak and grief-stricken to carry out the task herself.

   Once more Annie’s money dropped into the gravedigger’s outstretched hand. There were still four more patients requiring her care, and she had to be strong for their sakes, but she was weary. She wanted to lie down in the soft grass and sleep. To wake to find it was a bad dream and hear her mother calling to her from the kitchen. Hear the saw and smell the wood as her father worked beside the cottage. She suddenly felt old, old, tired, beaten, and resenting the walk to the village. The houses looked grey in the harsh pink white of the morning light. The streets were silent, and her footsteps resounded in the quiet. The air was much colder, and Annie hoped this would end the sickness. A good few day of frost would kill it off, after that everything would be much better.

Death Cry

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on May 22, 2020
Posted in: banshee, birdsong, hope faith God whispers heaven, books, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, Fairies, Fantasy, fiction, folklore, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, harbinger of death, Haunted Houses, horror, legend, memories, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, screams, sleeplessness, thoughts, wailing cry, Witchcraft, Witches, wraiths, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Chapter One

Her mother named her after a saint, but in truth Annie was not a saint; neither was she a devil. She was just…different, in a time when it was dangerous to be so. The year was 1653, a time of great unrest, when the shadow of Cromwell’s forces moved over the land leaving death and destruction in their wake and bringing untold suffering to a once peaceful nation.

   Annie Ryan knew all about suffering, though hers was of a different kind. Her home was in the hill country, and too wild and desolate to attract the invaders. Still, her pain was intense.

   The wind whipped about her, and she gathered her two sisters closer to shield them from its touch. A shuffling beside her made her reach into a hidden pocket in the folds of her skirts, and she withdrew two coins. These were dropped into the dirty, outstretched hand of the gravedigger. Grunting his thanks, he pocketed the money and walked away. She never looked at him; as her eyes were fixed on the twin mounds in the earth, the place where they had just buried her mother and father. Annie, despite her knowledge of herbs and healing was not able to save them, and they died within hours of one another, victims of a plague that was raging in the village. It had claimed many lives up to now. The elders spoke of witchcraft, of a curse being put on them, but Annie knew it was not so. It came from the earth and from the rats and other vermin that abounded on it. There was nothing sinister about what was happening. The summer was long and hot. The meat grew putrid in hours, the milk soured, and the air was filled with flies that landed on the food leaving disease behind. She had no idea how she knew of such things, but she did. She had the power to see things others could not. Her sense of hearing and smell was more heightened than others, and she could hear the flapping of bee’s wings or smell the blood of a trapped rabbit, as it struggled to get free from its snare. Of course, her mother warned her never to speak about it, but word got around, and it was whispered she was a witch and in league with the Devil. She had been amused by the stupid talk and the women who made the sign against the evil eye, when she passed, but it was no longer funny. She had to be both mother and father to her sisters. Dora, the baby of the family had turned six and Rose, just three-years-older at nine, were all she had left in the world.

   Annie was seventeen and used to her job as big sister, but it was under the guidance of her mother. Now she must stand alone, raise them as best she could and keep the promise she made to her mother on her deathbed.

Ushering the weeping girls away from the graves, she started towards home. Their cottage was on the outskirts of the village. It was hidden by the tall trees surrounding it and she liked it that way, it felt safe. A dark, thatched roof covered walls made from stone and mud. From a distance it looked quite picturesque and enchanting, but the truth was something else. It was cold and damp inside, moss and weeds grew between the cracks and crevices, and no amount of cleaning could keep it away. The few clothes they had felt wet against the skin, even though they hung from a rope stretched over the fire. The cold seeped into the bone, and it was easier to work outside than in. Her father farmed the large plot of land beside the cottage and this kept them in vegetables throughout the year. He was also a woodcutter and as well as supplying half the village with firewood, his carvings were everywhere. From the ornate arms of chairs, that would not have looked out of place in a manor house, to the small wooden dolls he made for his girls. He was truly gifted, everyone said so, but not in the way Annie was.

There were few enlightened souls in that dark time. Religious practices were frowned upon. It was a time of mistrust and grave superstition. When the dark deities who walked the land and circled the air found it easy to gain power

Annie sighed, as she sank into a chair, exhausted in both mind and body. Her sisters stood before her, frightened and unsure, so she held out her arms and they rushed into them. They felt warm, their touch familiar against her skin. They sniffled and burrowed even closer and she wanted to cry with them. The cottage was quiet. It was an after the funeral quiet, when one is alone with one’s thoughts, and the grief, the sense of overwhelming loss hits.

   “Come now,” she roused them. “We’ll have something to eat. It’ll make us feel better.”

They nodded, and while Annie set about preparing the meal, they laid the table. She had already made a stew of beef, carrots, and potatoes, and this only needed to be reheated. The comforting, mouth-watering smell soon invaded the small kitchen, but she had no appetite. She stirred the food, glad of having something to do, and not wanting to turn and see the look on her sisters’ faces. The clatter of spoons and plates being put on the table seemed hollow and unnatural. Even the soft birdsong drifting in angered her.

   She wrapped a cloth around the handles of the stew pot and brought it to the table. Taking a wooden ladle off its peg, she dished the steaming food onto the three plates. Her father carved this for her mother. Its large, deep curve narrowed up into a handle with the most intricate and delicate shapes of the trees growing in abundance outside the cottage. She fingered the wood for a moment and realizing her sisters were watching her, hurried the pot back to its place by the fire. They had their hands joined and their heads bowed when she sat down and were waiting for her to give thanks. Thanks for what; for being left frightened and alone with two small children? She could not bear to offer up a prayer. She was angry with both God and man.

   “Will you say the blessing, pet?” She asked Rose.

   “Please, God,” Rose whispered. “Please keep my Mam and Dad safe in Heaven. Bless me and Dora, but especially Annie. Do not let her get the sickness and die as well. Amen.”

The sobs Annie tried so hard to contain bubbled free, as she listened to the child’s prayer. Pushing her plate away, she put her head down on the table and howled. The days and nights of careful nursing had left her exhausted. There were a few times, when one or the other of her parents showed signs of rallying and her heart soared. But her hopes were dashed again and again, until finally they succumbed. She cried until she felt sick; big tears ran into the grooves and notches in the table wood forming tiny pools. She did not hear the soft crying of her sisters as they stroked her back, or the opening of the cottage door.

   “Annie Ryan, you stop sniffling this minute.”

She wiped her eyes and stared at the figure silhouetted in the doorway. Meg Matthews stood leaning on her walking stick, her face stern beneath the hood of her black cape. Meg had been in her life as far back as she could remember. She was honorary grandmother to the three girls and Annie’s teacher. Meg had the gift, but hers was not as strong as Annie’s. As soon as she was old enough to talk, Meg took her under her wing and taught her the names of plants and roots. The art of healing came easily to Annie. The art of combining herbs and roots and discovering which ones were poisonous and harmful and could bring about death if not properly handled, was learned with amazing speed. Annie watched, still sniffling, as the old woman hobbled her way towards the fire, her stick tapping on the stone floor.

   “Come here, child,” she ordered when she was comfortable in a chair.

Annie stayed where she was. She was numb with grief and her eyes felt sore from crying. With her free hand, Meg withdrew something from beneath her cape and the two younger girls ran to her with exclamations of delight. Annie got up to see what all the fuss was about. A small black kitten stood on the old woman’s lap. It purred and arched its back towards the gentle stroking of the children’s hands.

   “Is he ours, Meg?” Dora asked. “Can we keep him?”

   “What do you say, Annie?” Meg smiled.

Annie ran the back of her hands across her cheeks, wiping away the last few tears. She looked down into the hopeful, upturned faces of her sisters, and realized for the first time that day, there was no sign of their loss.

   “I dare say he’ll not eat us out of house and home.”

   “He’ll not be long in growing and filling out,” Meg handed the kitten to the girls. “Take him outside and play.”

They went out, squabbling over who owned the kitten, and what his name was. When they were out of earshot, Meg turned to Annie.

   “Sit by me child and listen well. It will do you no good to grieve so. Those little ones need you to be strong. Your parents, God rest their souls,” she crossed herself. “Are safe and in God’s hands. They’d not want you to go on like this, now would they?”

   “No,” Annie mumbled.

   “It’s not that my heart doesn’t bleed for you and your loss, child. But it is your health I’m thinking of. Grief makes you weak, and in times such as these any weakness can be fatal.”

 She knew Meg was right, but she had a right to be sad. The old woman seemed to read her thoughts.

   “Of course, you’ve a right to grieve, and they’ll be many times in the days ahead when you’ll want to cry, but all I’m saying is don’t let it overwhelm you, understand?”

   “Yes,” Annie rose from her chair and knelt beside the old woman.

The thin arms encircling her were strong and the heavy woollen cape smelt of the woods. Of evergreens and hollyhock, even the warmth of the sun seemed trapped within its fibres.

   “I’d have come with you today, child. But my old legs are playing me up again, and I find the walking hard.”

   “I know you would.”

   “Was there anyone else there?”

   “No, no one, just me and the girls.”

   “Not even old Mary O Brien and her scrawny son?”

   “No one.”

   “Well, the curse of God on them and they related by blood to you. The least they could’ve done was show their faces.”

   “They might be sick.”

   “Sick indeed,” the old woman snorted. “Not even the sickness would touch those two. “Why, they’d skin a flea for its hide. The grasping, miserly pair of them that’s in it.”

   “Am I to take it you don’t like them, Meg?”

The old woman laughed.

   “I suppose you could say that,” then serious. “Your father took care of everything?”

   “Yes, everything,” Annie knew what she meant.

Her father called one of the elders to him when he realized how sick he had become. The cottage and the two acres with it, he willed to Annie, an unthinkable thing in a time when land was passed to the male heir. Women rarely owned anything, and if it had not been for her father’s hindsight, they would be homeless, and the cottage and property in the hands of his distant cousin, Hugh O Brien.

   “That’s good,” Meg was relieved. “That keeps you safe for now.”

   “Why for now?”

   “Ach, don’t mind me child and my old ramblings. Here, help me stand.”

Annie got up and held out her arm. Meg, leaning on it, groaned her way up.

   “I’ll need your help come morning. They’re coming to me in droves looking for medicines to ease their suffering,” she stopped on the threshold. “You’ll collect the herbs and roots I need?”

   “Of course.”

   “Good girl,” Meg patted her hand. “We have a hard-few weeks before us. The sickness grows stronger and the need for help greater. You’ll have to take it to those too ill to leave their beds.”

   “I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

   “I know you will.”

Annie watched her until she was lost from sight. She heard her sisters’ shouts of farewell echoing from within the forest, and the old woman stopped long enough to wave to them. Annie had no way of knowing, as she went inside to reheat the food, how troubled Meg was.

Two acres of land and a cottage might not seem much, but people have killed for less. Acquiring such left Annie open to the fortune hunters, who would do anything to get their hands on them. There was one, Meg thought, as she walked along, that no-good Hugh O Brien. He had never worked an honest day in his life, despite the fact he lived in one of the best houses in the village. Well under the thumb of his scheming mother and apt to do anything on her say so, he posed a very real threat to Annie. She saw the way he looked at the girl. Meg beat at the ferns in her path with her stick and wished all the while each one was Hugh. Still, who could blame him? Annie was the most beautiful woman in these parts. There were few who failed to notice her, with her waist-length auburn hair hanging about her like a thick cloak, and the green, searching eyes that seemed to look into your very soul. But he was no good and his feelings for Annie were nothing but lust. He was not capable of loving her or anyone else. He was best avoided, and she’d see he was kept away from the child, one-way or the other. She shivered remembering the dreams. They came regularly now, disturbing her sleep and making her days as restless as her nights; always the same, never deviating in any way. That was what frightened her the most, they were so real. Each one starting with a low chanting, rising to a scream, and the crackling of burning timber, and red flames leaping high into the darkness surrounding them. She smelt the smoke, even now in the clear air. It was a bad omen. There was something evil in the air. There was talk of a curse being placed on the village, but she had dismissed this as superstitious nonsense. The ignorant folk were always looking for someone to blame for life’s tragedies. It was a puzzle, and as she walked homewards, she prayed her sleep would be undisturbed that night.

Death Cry

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on May 21, 2020
Posted in: banshee, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Death Cry, Eerie Places, Fairies, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, harbinger of death, horror, memories, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, screams, sleeplessness, wailing cry, wraiths, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , . Leave a comment

PROLOGUE

The sun had set on what was a very warm midsummer’s day in Ireland. It no sooner disappeared below the horizon, than it was replaced by the full moon. The glowing red clouds left behind with the promise of a warmer day to come, reached out caressed the moon and turned it to blood. An uneasy quiet shrouded the countryside. Night creatures rose from slumbering to begin their nocturnal foraging, tiny grey bats swooped through the still air and the call of the night owl was heard from deep within the forests. It was a night like any other, until the wailing started.

   The animals heard it first, picking up their ears and sniffing the air. The sound caused both fur and feather to rise. None of them waited to hear it reach a crescendo preferring to take cover in their dens, warrens, and tree trunks. It was a sound to chill the blood of any listener. Starting with a sigh and rising to a mournful keen that cut into the soul. It was the lament of someone who had known great sorrow and loss.

   The people who heard its warning crossed themselves in fear. Some muttered a silent prayer for its intended victim before locking any open window and pulling the curtains closed, despite the cloying heat. Children tossed fitfully in their sleep sensing the cry. Farmers, who were still at work in the fields, left what they were doing and hurried home.

Those who understood its meaning dared not speak of it. Fearful glances were exchanged, televisions were turned up as loud as possible, but nothing could mask the cry. It invaded the air, crept through cracks and keyholes, it would be heard. There was nothing to stop it. Man, despite all his modern technology, was not adept to deal with such a thing.

   Its voice had haunted countless generations of the O Brien family, warning them of a coming death, but it had not been heard for many years. Now, it was back, and with a vengeance. It continued all through the night only quieting with the coming of dawn. The old, who understood too well its voice, lay awake until the last notes faded in the lightening air. Never had they heard its cry last for so long or be more powerful. Instinct told them this was to be no ordinary passing for its prey. The voice they heard wanted more.

 She was finally awake. The Dark One’s curse was almost at an end. Gathering her waist length hair about her, she raked her fingers through it picking out dead leaves and bits of twigs. She had lain in limbo throughout the centuries and was only allowed on the earth for a short time, to herald each death of that accursed family. This was what she had waited for. He was the last male in his line and soon he would be no more. All the evil and wickedness would be ended, and she could rest in peace. Her crying would cease once he was dead. She would wrap herself around him, her arms the embrace of a cold lover and they would return to the dark earth together. He would have no other choice; he was powerless to resist her. There is no escaping the cry of the Banshee

Death Cry

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on May 20, 2020
Posted in: Ghost. 2 Comments

I have another story for you. Starting tomorrow join me as we venture once again into the world of the paranormal. Travel back to a time of lonely cottages and candlelight and the strange screams that bring with them the promise of death. The terrifying cry of the Banshee.

The Wraith-Epilogue

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on May 12, 2020
Posted in: birdsong, hope faith God whispers heaven, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Halloween, Haunted Houses, memories, monsters, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, thoughts, twlight, Witchcraft, Witches, wraiths, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

         The lights on the Christmas tree twinkled as Jill bent to push the brightly wrapped presents underneath its spiky branches. It gave her a sense of pride to know the tree came from her own wood and would be returned there once the festivities were over. The new bike Toby hinted about sat against the wall. The light from the sitting room fire dancing across its metallic red paint, made it glow and she smiled, imagining his delight when he saw it. Her parents were coming next day for Christmas lunch and planned to stay until the New Year, a prospect that would have once horrified her. A deeper understanding developed between Jill and her mother and she now found it easier to talk to the woman who offered her life in exchange for hers. So much had changed over the months she was forced to brush aside the memory. Tom would also be there for lunch, but not Paul who was spending the holidays with his sons. He had not forgotten them though, and his presents, brought along earlier in the day, sat beneath the tree.

   The turkey, an enormous one, presented to her by one of the women at the surgery, would need to go in the oven at 6am, but that would not be a problem. Jill slept very little now after abandoning the sleeping pills on which she had become too reliant. Switching off the downstairs lights, she climbed the stairs, glad of the feel of Bess’s hot breath on her legs. Toby was fast asleep, but the excitement of what lay in store would wake him earlier than normal.

   The old dog lay down beside her mistress’s bed. Jill’s eyes were too tired to read so she sat in bed and drew her knees up around her. It was still many hours until dawn and it was doubtful sleep would come. All around her the house stretched and yawned as it settled for the night. She now knew every creak of its floorboards and the small scurrying from the mice in the attic overhead no longer made her heart pound as it used to do. It was Christmas Eve; they were safe and there was nothing to fear. She repeated this over and over in her head. They were safe, and there was nothing to fear. Soon it would be a New Year, a new beginning and the memories would fade with time. Still, she looked towards the window, picturing the inky blackness outside. She couldn’t wait for summer and the long, bright days. Maybe then she would sleep.

The Wraith-chapter thirty-seven

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on May 11, 2020
Posted in: birdsong, hope faith God whispers heaven, books, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Halloween, Haunted Houses, horror, memories, monsters, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, sleeplessness, thoughts, twlight, Witchcraft, Witches, wraiths, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , . 1 Comment

         Despite the strong sedative she was given Jill tossed and turned in her sleep, trying to escape the pain of her wounds. She was aware only of the hushed tones of her mother’s voice as she begged her to lie still. When she finally managed to struggle free of the drugs’ effects, she traced her eyes along the line that ran from her arm to the overhead bag on the drip stand. Groaning, she turned to where her mother sat knitting.

   “Ah, you’re back with us at last,” she put aside the needles and laid a cold hand on Jill’s forehead. “Not too bad,” she decided, taking her hand away.

   “I feel bad,” Jill struggled to sit and groaned, as the wounds protested the movement.

   “Here, let me help you,” her mother’s arms felt strong, as they hoisted her up in the bed. “There now,” she plumped up the pillows.

   “Thanks, Mam,” Jill was sweating from the effort.

   “Are you in pain?” Her mother asked.

   “A little,” Jill lied, not wanting to distress her.

   Hum,” her mother as always, knew she was lying and reaching across the bed, the pressed the buzzer beside the pillow.

Instantly a nurse appeared, carrying a steel bowl.  

   “Hello, Jill,” the nurse busied herself filling a syringe from a vial. “This will help the pain,” she plunged the needle into the line in Jill’s arm.

   “Thank you.” She felt the drug’s effects as her face grew warm and the throbbing of her skin eased.

   “She’ll probably sleep now,” the nurse laid her arm on her mother’s shoulder. “You should have a rest, get a drink or something to eat,” she suggested.

   “Yes,” her mother rose stiffly from the chair. “I’ll do that.”

Leaning across her daughter, she once again checked her forehead for sign of fever.

   “I’m going down to the canteen,” she whispered. “I won’t be long. You try and sleep. Toby and your father will be in to see you later.”

   “Thanks, Mam,” Jill’s tongue felt dry and her words slurred.

   “Jill,” the voice roused her, and she struggled to open her eyes.

The light was on in the room, and as the curtains had not yet been drawn, she saw the darkness outside the window.

   “How are you feeling?”

She looked up bleary-eyed at the doctor who bent over her

   “Sore,” she managed to croak.

   Yes, you will be for some days, I’m afraid,” he picked up the water glass beside her bed and helped her take a sip.

It was cool against her parched throat and she licked her lips, savouring the taste.

   “We’ll need to keep you here another day,” he said, “in case of infection. I must admit, I’ve never seen anything like it. A stray dog, your mother says.”

   “Yes,” Jill’s mother appeared as if by magic. “It was bothering the sheep and she went out to chase it away.”

   “Good God, you were lucky to escape any more harm,” he said. “It could have been much worse. Many of the scars will heal by themselves and we have an excellent plastic surgeon here who can deal with the more obvious ones. Now try and rest,” he patted her hand, before leaving the room.

   “Plastic surgeon?” She looked in terror at her mother.

   “Oh, it’s nothing,” she brushed aside her worry. “A few small scars on your neck and chest that’s all.”

Jill brought a hand up to feel her face. It felt smooth and unmarked, but when her fingers traced down the line of her jaw and under her chin, she felt the first of many dressings.

   “He says,” her mother nodded at the doctor’s retreating figure, “you can go home tomorrow, if your temperature stays down.”

   “Oh good,” Jill said, but her smile belied her true feelings.

Here, in the sterile surroundings of the hospital, the memory of the past few weeks was like a bad dream. Once she returned home, there would be no choice but to face what had happened.

   “I’ll come back later,” her mother shrugged on her coat. “And I’ll bring your father and Toby to visit.”

   “What did you tell Toby?”

   “I said you fell into a thorn bush and got scratched.”

   “And he believed you?”

   “He certainly didn’t press the matter any further. Now get some rest and I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

Once her mother left, the fear Jill felt over the past weeks returned and she was once more a child, alone and abandoned. Outside in the corridor, she heard the bustle of everyday life. She looked around the small private ward and wondered how she was going to pay for her stay. After Joe left them, she had no longer been able to afford the payments on her private health insurance policy and she knew the bill for her care would run into thousands. The small mirror above the hand basin beckoned to her and she rose stiffly and made her way across to it, using the IV stand as a crutch. Her reflection was terrible to behold, and she gasped and gripped on the cold porcelain sink. Her face, though bruised and swollen, was left largely untouched by the Wraith’s nails, but a long dressing ran beneath her chin and disappeared below the neck of the hospital gown. Pulling the neck of the gown free from her body, she looked down at the numerous dressings stuck like snowy train tracks across her skin. The one beneath her breast was the largest and most painful and she grew weak remembering the agony as the Wraith had searched for her heart.

   Gritting her teeth, she peeled away the dressing on her neck. Some of the stitches stuck to the dressing and brought tears to her eyes, as she eased them away from the dried blood. The skin beneath was puckered and raw looking and the row of black stitches made it look even worse. Groaning, she stuck the dressing back in to place and made her way back to the bed. She had just covered herself, when someone knocked on the door.

   “Come in,” she watched the door swing open and Tom appeared, carrying a large bouquet of roses.

   “Thank you,” Jill held out her arms to accept his gift. “They’re lovely.”

   “You don’t look too bad,” he pulled her mother’s recently vacated chair closer to the bed and sat down.

   “Liar,” she smiled.

   “Considering,” he raised his hands in mock defeat.

   “I’m going to have a few scars,” she touched the dressing on her neck.

   “Battle scars,” he nodded, “And by God, it was some fight.”

   “Yes,” Jill agreed. “It certainly was.”

They sat in silence, unsure of what to say next.

   “Do you think she’s gone for good,” Jill asked.

   “Yes, I don’t doubt it. It’s strange, but I feel as though a load has lifted.”

   “Can you ever forgive me?”

   “I’ve thought of nothing else over the past few days and I’d be a hypocrite if I said I wouldn’t have done the same thing to get Rachael back,” the sorrow in his voice at the mention of his child’s name was obvious. “Look at it this way; I got to see my little girl again.”

   “Yes,” Jill whispered. “At least something good came out of it for you.”

   “You know,” he stopped and wiped his eyes. “Marie was always nervy, and our marriage wasn’t always plain sailing, but that thing back there, that Wraith was not Marie, it was something else, something dark and evil.”

   “I know what you mean,” Jill agreed.  

   “Let’s change the subject,” Tom said. “I met Paul this morning.”

   “How is he?”

   “A bit shaken up, like all of us, but he’s different, more assured,” He looked at her. “Does that sound strange?”

   “No, I think what happened to us is bound to have some lasting effect.”

   “Anyway, he said to give you his best and tell you he’ll call to see you later.”

   “Great,” Jill said. “He’s been a tower of strength. I don’t know what I would have done without him.”

   “He’s been put up for all sorts of awards for solving the case and get this,” Tom laughed. “He’s taking early retirement. I’d like to bet on how long that will last.”

   “He’s not leaving the village, is he?”

   “No and he says you’re not either. Your father told him about the gossip, and he says he’ll soon put a stop to it.”

   “No doubt he will,” she laughed.

   “He’s a very determined man,” Tom agreed. “He’s been in touch with his sons and talks of visiting the grandchildren.”

   “I’m glad; it’s not good to be so alone.”

   “No,” Tom said, and his voice was filled with sadness. “It’s not.”

They talked for what seemed like minutes, but was in fact, hours. The arrival of Toby and her parents interrupted them, and Tom left with the promise to call to the house the next evening. Toby fussed over her dressings and thought the IV was cool, as he had only ever seen one before on the television. His eyes widened when she recounted the tale of how she had fallen into the holly bush, but his quiet acceptance of the story bothered her. Had he already witnessed so many strange events in his short life he no longer questioned them or was he just too worn out to care?

The Wraith-chapter thirty six

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on May 10, 2020
Posted in: birdsong, hope faith God whispers heaven, books, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Halloween, Haunted Houses, horror, letting go, memories, monsters, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, thoughts, twlight, Witchcraft, Witches, wraiths, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

         She left the house at 3am, the dead hour. The hour it is rumoured Christ died, and the moment in which the veil is lifted to the world of spirits. It is also the time most haunting and apparitions are reported. It’s easy to see why, Jill thought, as she made her way across the frost- covered yard. The windows in the house were dark and there was no light to show those who slept had heard her go. Her father made her promise she’d wake him and mindful that she might not, he stayed downstairs in the sitting room, where tiredness overcame him. He was snoring when she crept down the hallway, and the embers from the dying fire lit the room. It fell upon his face, showing the lines of worry that deepened over the past week.

   “Goodbye Dad,” Jill whispered, and bit down on her lip to stop the tears.

She’d not looked in on Toby, not just for fear of waking him, but afraid seeing his flushed, sleep-warm cheeks would weaken her resolve. Bess was forced to stay in her place by the bed, sensing her mistress was in trouble. She tried time and time again to follow Jill, until she locked her in the bedroom with a warning to be quiet.

   Drawing the rusted bolt across on one of the outbuildings as quietly as she could, Jill went inside and pulled the bicycle from its hiding place. It was her grandmother’s only means of transport, but she only came across it a few days back and realised it would now play a part in her plan. It was painted black and ancient to look at, but it would serve its purpose. A tatty wicker basket hung from the handlebars, leather straps frayed, but still strong enough to hold Jill’s bundle. The book was wedged in sideways to fit. The triangle of Solomon, incense, spray paint and lighter, were tucked in on either side. Jill wore the cloak over her clothes. She would slip out of them when she reached the graveyard.

   The light from the full moon lit the yard as she wheeled the squeaking bike over the stones. Despite oiling it the day before, it still groaned, protesting at being disturbed. To anyone watching from inside the house, she must have looked like a dark shadow reflected against the white of the winter’s night. But there was no one to watch her go, except for the things that belonged to the shadows and they soon returned to their nocturnal foraging. She couldn’t have taken the car. The noise of the engine would echo in the stillness.

   The laneway leading to the road was all uphill, so she didn’t try to ride the bike, but pushed it until she was clear of the gate and the road lay smooth in front of her. It was years since she had ridden a bike and her movements were clumsy and jittery at first, but she soon got the hang of it. Peddling along, aware only of the wind in her hair, she had no idea how witchlike she looked. The cloak billowed around her and the speed with which she rode made it look as though she were flying. The gnarled trees and bare bushes on either side of her swept by in a blur. She was panting from the effort and stopped when the village came into view to rest. The feel of the ground beneath her feet felt strange and her legs were wobbly when she stood down from the pedals. Leaning against a low wall for support, she waited until the shaking went from her limbs and her breathing returned to normal.

   As she predicted no one watched her pass. The place was deserted, the only movement from the flickering of the bulbs in the overhead streetlights. In the distance, she saw the spire of the church looming ever closer, and from across the fields came the barking of a lone dog. In her hurry and terror, she forgot about the envelope in her pocket, the one destined for her solicitor.

   She rounded the side of the church and started the ascent towards the graveyard. The muscles in her thighs screamed in protest as she stood to give more weight to the pedals. Sweat coated her forehead and her breath came in rasps as she urged the bike up the hill. Soon the railing of the graveyard came into view, their spikes ghostly spears guarding the place of the dead. Her hands shook as she placed the bike against the wall beside the gates and pulled the assortment of goods from the basket. She wouldn’t think about what was going to happen, she didn’t dare imagine what the next few minutes held in store, contenting herself with the knowledge her child was safe in his bed and nothing else mattered.

   The full moon made the graveyard bright as day and the white marble tombstones luminous under its rays. She knew exactly which way to go as the memory of her first visit there burned the path in her brain. As she moved past the old tombs, she tried not to think of rotten, undead things that might at any time come tottering out. A rat scampered across her path and she drew back. It stopped and looked at her, drawn by the sound of her gasp of disgust. It sniffed the air, whiskers bristling, eyes blazing, until it decided there was nothing to fear and no chance of attack. Jill watched it move away, its body swollen from feasting. “Don’t” her mind screamed, when she imagined its sharp teeth sinking into her cold flesh.

   “Jesus Christ,” she muttered. “I should have told them I wanted to be cremated.”

Perhaps, her mother would do just that. She would not want the trouble of tending a grave.

   The smell of freshly dug earth signalled she’d reached Marie’s grave. She had been so busy worrying about the rat she almost walked by it. The mound looked alien beside the flatter, grass-covered graves beside it and her stomach churned as she imagined the earth breathing.

   It’s just my imagination, she warned, as she hid behind a tree and disrobed. Her clothes were stuck to her sweat-coated body and she peeled them away. The blast from the frosty night air made her catch her breath and she pulled the cloak around her shivering body. Gathering up the things she needed, she left her clothes and went back to the grave. The spell of freeing the Wraith was not as complicated as summoning her, and it would only take a few minutes to accomplish. Placing the triangle beside the grave, Jill set about drawing the circle to protect her. She knew, even as she moved the spray around the grass, it would be useless against the Wraith when she attacked. The book warned of this and told her if the spirit she summoned was not a benevolent one, then she might find herself in mortal danger. Still, she had not worried about that in her terror of finding Toby. Even if she realised what might happen, she would have done it anyway.

   “I’ve been waiting for you.”

The voice was a snarl against her ear, and she screamed when she realised the Wraith was inside the circle with her.

   “Did you really think this,” she scuffed the wet paint with the toe of her shoe. “Would protect you?”

   “Not really,” Jill’s voice was hoarse with fear. “I only drew it to complete the spell.”

   “Really?” The Wraith stepped out of the circle. “How very noble of you.”

A blast of freezing air swept past her and for the first time Jill smelled the stench. She looked with widening eyes at the Wraith, noticing dark blotches etched on the burgundy gown she wore and the blackness that coating her long, jagged nails. The memory of the men’s screams echoed in her brain and she grew weak with fear. Sensing her distress, the Wraith smiled.

   “Now it’s your turn,” it reached out to her. “Now you will pay for disturbing me.”

Jill closed her eyes and waited for the pain.

   “Stop that now.”

The familiar voice from behind made Jill turn. Her father stood there, holding the large wooden crucifix that usually hung in the kitchen of the farmhouse. Cobwebs coating its surface, it glittered under the light of the moon. She would have laughed if she was not so terrified. He somehow imagined the Wraith was a vampire that could be driven back by the symbol of the cross.

   “Dad, please,” Jill warned him, aware the Wraith was turning her attention to the quivering man.

   “Who have we here?” it swept past Jill.

Her father tried to steady himself leaning one hand on the nearest tombstone and holding out the cross with the other.

   “Go on now,” he roared as the figure advanced towards him. “Be off with you.”

Before Jill could shout a warning, another voice shattered the night.

   “Stand back,” Paul walked towards them arm outstretched.

In it, he held the firearm, the one he was given on his promotion to detective. He never had reason to use it and he had always been grateful. Still, he kept it clean and oiled, aware one day it might be needed.

   “Come away,” he grabbed Jill’s father by the shoulder and pulled him out of harm’s way. “Don’t think I won’t use this,” he waved the gun in the Wraith’s face.

   “Idiot,” it snarled and with lightning speed, raked its blood-crusted nails across Paul’s hand. He screamed and dropped the gun.

   “Marie, stop!” Tom’s voice added to the turmoil around them.

As the Wraith turned towards the sound of his voice, Jill rushed to help Paul.

   “I told you to stay away,” she muttered, as she wrapped the handkerchief her father held out to her around the wound.

   “I couldn’t let you face this alone,” he looked to where the Wraith stood facing Tom.

   “You could have left him out of it,” Jill hissed, as she saw the distress in Tom’s face.

   “He might be able to help,” Paul winced as she tied the makeshift bandage in a knot.

From what the Wraith said that was not the case. She no longer apparently recognised her husband and was intent on revenge.

   “I will kill you all,” it pointed to each of them in turn. “You should have let me be.”

   “I know I should,” Jill stepped away from the others and walked towards it. “But these men had nothing to do with it. It’s my fault and I alone should pay the price.”

   “Pity,” it sneered, its nails within an inch of Jill’s face when the shot rang out.

Paul managed to retrieve his gun and fired at the Wraith. The bullet passed clean through it, ricocheting off one of the marble headstones and causing them all to duck.

   “I just knew it,” the voice came from along the path. “I said to myself you were all up to something.”

Jill turned, open-mouthed as her mother advanced on them.

   “I knew by the way you two,” she glared at her husband and daughter, “had your heads together you were up to something and I’m telling you this…” her voice trailed off as she saw the Wraith.

   “Mam, where’s Toby?”

The sound of her daughter’s voice made her answer automatically.

   “Asleep in the car,” trying hard to overcome her terror at the thing before her, she asked. “What is that?”

   “It’s too difficult to explain, please,” Jill begged. “Go home.”

   “I will not go home, not until I know what’s going on.”

   “Perhaps I could explain,” the Wraith moved towards her.

   “Well, yes.”

Jill saw her mother’s look of disapproval at the state of the Wraith’s dress and thought despite her fear she still found time to be critical even of the dead.

   “I was resting, shall we say,” the Wraith sneered, “and this woman woke me. She needed my help to search for her son, and now that I have served my purpose, she expects me to disappear. Well she’s wrong,” it snarled and turned back to Jill.

   “This has something to do with your grandmother, I expect,” her mother said.

   “Mam, please,” Jill was amazed at her mother’s calm.

   “I knew it,” she addressed the Wraith. “What do you want?”

Before the Wraith could answer, Jill said.

   “She wants me, Mam. I woke her and now she wants me to pay the price.”

   “And what is that?”

   “My death,” Jill said.

   “Oh,” the information hit home and for a moment her mother was stunned. “Well, she’ll just have to settle for me. I can’t have you leaving my grandson without a mother. Now let’s be reasonable,” she said to the Wraith. “If you are determined to take a life then let it be mine. This young woman is all I have in the world. You should know what it feels like to lose a child,” she realised from the mound of fresh earth and the symbols that surrounded it, that this was the mother of one of the children that was murdered. “Leave my child alone and take me instead.”

   “Mam, no,” Jill was sobbing, not only because of her fear for her mother, but because she understood for the first time how much she really loved her.

   “Very well,” the Wraith seemed confused by the woman’s words. Somewhere deep in the darkest recesses of her mind, she recalled a loss so great that even in death she felt its pain. “I will do as you ask, I’ll settle for you.”

   “No,” Jill screamed, as the Wraith reached for her mother. “Leave her alone.”

She rushed at the Wraith and was joined in her attack by her father and the other men. They encountered nothing but air and the assault only enraged the Wraith, so she forgot her promise and dived at Jill. Her nails cut deep into her skin, until Jill felt her heart would be literally torn from her chest. The Wraith reached out again and again, slashing, tearing, until Jill felt the world fading and the warmth of her own blood coursing down her chilled skin. All around her the screams of her mother and the men rang. They could do nothing but watch in helpless terror.

   “Mam, stop that.”

Jill felt the Wraith’s hold loosen and she fell back against the mound. She tried to focus as her mother lifted her head and tried to stop the flow of blood with an assortment of tissues and handkerchiefs.

   “That’s Toby’s mother,” Rachael stood with hands on hips, tapping her small foot in irritation. “Why are you hurting her?”

   “I don’t know,” the Wraith was confused at the sight of her daughter.

   “Come away,” Rachael took her mother’s bloody hand and drew her down onto the path.               “Hi, Dad,” she smiled when she saw Tom.

   “Hello, sweetheart,” he was sobbing at the image of his little girl.

She looked the same as she had the last time, he saw her alive. Jill lay groaning in agony with her head resting on her mother’s lap. Rachael let go of her mother’s hand, first warning her to stay where she was and walked over to Jill

   “I’m sorry my mother hurt you,” she tapped Jill on the hand and the icy cold of her skin burned like fire. “She’s a bit broken in here,” she touched her head. “But they’ll fix her when we get there,” she looked the star-studded sky. “So, don’t worry anymore, I’ll take care of her now, okay?”

   “Thank you,” Jill tried to smile through her tears.

She went back the where her mother stood and led her away.

   “Bye, Dad,” Rachael looked over her shoulder at Tom.

   “Bye, sweetheart,” Tom was so overcome with grief that Paul had to support him.

   “Don’t be sad,” Rachael smiled. “We’ll be all right now. Promise.”

They watched her lead her mother over to the mound, watched as the figures before them started to fade.

   “Where have you been?” the Wraith asked.

They heard the Wraith ask.

   “I went to get ice cream, remember” Rachael said.

   “It seems a long time ago,” the Wraith answered.

   “I know, Mam, I know,” Rachael’s voice drifted away, and Jill could hear her sigh in resignation, “mothers.”

The Wraith-chapter thirty-five

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on May 9, 2020
Posted in: birdsong, hope faith God whispers heaven, books, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Halloween, Haunted Houses, memories, monsters, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, twlight, Witchcraft, Witches, wraiths, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

         Jill’s isolation meant she was spared the outcry surrounding Rachael’s funeral. She later learned thousands turned out, as a wave of mourning at the loss of such innocence swept the country. A mysterious fire started in the house of Dominic Jackson and most of the contents were destroyed before the fire brigade got it under control. The fire starter would not be prosecuted, as no one saw anything or anybody in the vicinity. Or if they had, they weren’t about to turn in the person, who had done the village a favour. Though the fire cleansed only the building, it made those living on either side feel better such evil should be razed to the ground. The news the local Co Council planned to clear the site was met with relief; its ruins not a stain and constant reminder of the evil among them.

Jill spent another sleepless night, her last one on earth as she saw it. Both her parents attended Rachael’s funeral and her mother recounted word for word things she witnessed.

   “Her father was in bits,” she told Jill. “I don’t know how he managed to stand, poor man.”

   “Christ, woman,” Jill heard her father mutter, as he led his wife from the room. “Doesn’t she have enough to worry her?”

   “I was only saying,” the argument continued down the hallway until the slamming sitting room door muffled it.

She couldn’t think about Tom and his suffering. Now, she needed all her strength to make it through the next few hours. She planned to spend as much time as possible with Toby, but it was difficult to make him stay by her side. His abduction earned him a fame of sorts, and there was a constant stream of callers from school asking him to play. He held court in one of the outbuildings. Jill eavesdropped once, to ensure he was sticking to the story rehearsed. To her relief he was, and while the tale of the men in the masks was embellished at each telling, they now wore the masks of the devil, pointed horns and all. He did as he was told.

   Today was no different, and she couldn’t deny him his few hours of fame by ordering him to stay indoors. Sighing, she closed the door on the group of children and turned to where her father waited.

   “I’ve been thinking,” he nodded towards the kitchen and she walked in. “Your mother is watching one of her shows,” He closed the door quietly and tiptoed across the stone flags.

   “What’s wrong?” Jill whispered as she lifted the chair from beneath the table and placed it gently down to avoid scraping the wood on the stone.

Her father did the same and took his place opposite her.

   “I’ve been thinking,” his voice so low she had to clear away the condiments that sat between them and lean closer to hear.

   “I have a few pounds squirreled away, it’s not a fortune, I grant you, but enough to help you make a fresh start.”

   “I don’t understand, Dad,” She was puzzled. “What do you mean?”

   Listen, girl,” he grabbed her hands so tight it hurt. “After the funeral today, after I witnessed the suffering of that poor man, I managed to give your mother the slip for a few minutes. I went into one of those internet cafes. There’s a plane leaving Shannon tonight at six for Amsterdam. I got tickets for you and Toby.”

   “But, Dad,” she tried to speak, but he raised a hand to stop her.

   “I know Amsterdam is not a great starting point, but they were the only seats available. You could spend a week there and see how you like it. If you don’t, you can always move on. Now, stop interrupting me,” he saw how her mouth opened and closed trying to find the right words. “Anyway, it will be a fresh start and that thing, that spirit will get confused looking for you. Sure, she won’t think to look there.”

   “Oh, Dad,” Jill felt her heart swell with love at the innocence of his actions and she started to cry.

Her father had never found it easy to display his feelings and there were times, especially during her teenage years when she accused him of not loving her, but his actions now left her no doubt.

   “Stop now, girl,” he looked fearfully at the kitchen door. “If your mother hears, she’ll be in asking questions.”

Jill managed to drag her hands free and searched in the sleeve of her jumper for a tissue.

   “Use this,” her father pulled another sail-sized handkerchief from his trousers pocket.

Jill wiped her eyes, breathing in the familiar smell of mints and tobacco trapped within the linen.

   “There is no escaping the Wraith,” she folded the handkerchief and handed it back to him. “We’re tied together by my actions. I doesn’t matter where I go, she will find me. I could hide in a cave in Alaska and she would know where to look.”

Her father was no longer looking at her. He took to kneading the handkerchief between his fingers, and Jill realised, he knew this. He was trying to protect the one person he loved most in the world.

   “You know something, Dad?” she laid her hand on his. “I don’t mind. Really, I don’t,” she assured him as she saw his look of disbelief. “If Toby is safe, I can face anything.”

Instead of spending the remaining time as she envisioned with her son, she stayed with her father, recalling better times and laughing over shared memories; interrupted only by Toby’s demands for snacks and drinks for his entourage. Her mother, too engrossed in her afternoon talk shows, left them alone, and they were free to sip tea and bask in the love of a father and his only child. Jill knew, as she watched her father’s face crease up in smiles, as he recounted yet another family tale that she was officiating at her own wake.

Outside the light began to dim as night closed in. Headlights from cars lit the yard outside, as parents came to collect their children.

   “Will you deal with this?” Jill asked her father, when the first car appeared.

   “No problem, girl,” he eased his way out of the chair. “I’ll tell them you’re having a lie down.”

The commotion in the yard wasn’t missed by her mother, who no sooner had she seen the lights, made it her business to go see who it was. She didn’t try to refute her husband’s story about Jill resting, but relished the attention of the women, who consoled her suffering, then marvelled at the return of her grandson. Jill watched from behind the net curtains, aware these women only wanted to gossip. Denied the facts by Jill’s refusal to talk to the newspapers, they send their child to play there, in the hope the boy or one of his relations would fill in the blanks.

   I don’t envy you,” Jill thought, as she watched each boy climb in the back of the waiting car. No doubt they’d be grilled on the way home.

   Taking some chicken portions from the fridge, she turned on the oven in the old gas cooker. Tonight, she’d make one of Toby’s favourite dishes, barbecued chicken and chips. She wanted him to remember this meal, this night for the rest of his life. Not in a bad way, but in a way, that would make him feel warm every time he recalled it. No matter what her mother said, she would smile and ignore it.

   “God, it’s freezing out there,” her mother came in, rubbing the frost from her arms. “I’ll do that if you want?” She eyed the array of jars Jill set out on the table to make the sauce.

   “No, its fine, Mam,” Jill smiled. “You go sit by the fire. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

   “Okay, the news is on in a minute anyway,” she left the room, glad not to get her hands dirty.

Jill marinated the chicken and placed it on a tray. Oven chips would do as a complement, no need to waste the gas.

   “I fed the dogs,” Toby stormed into the room, just as Jill shut the oven door.

   “Good boy now wash your hands,” Jill ordered.

She studied him as he ran the soap between his fingers. He was growing fast, his new trousers barely reached his ankles, and he only had them a couple of months. Despite the kitchen’s lone bulb, there was no hiding the highlights in his hair. It changed colour of late, become darker, like his father’s, but the flecks of coppery-red among the shiny tresses came from her. His eyes though, remained the same and he turned them to full effect on her now.

   “Are you okay, Mam?”

   “Of course,” she handed him a towel. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

   “I don’t know,” she waited as he dried between each finger. “Just something the lads said.”

   “What something?” She could feel her throat grow tight.

   “They were asking me if Mr Jackson was one of the bad men. I did what you told me, I said I didn’t know that they all had masks on.”

   “Well, that’s all right then, isn’t it?” She waited to see what would come next.

   “Yeah, I know, but…”

   “But?”

   “Well, Tommy said, that his mother said, that if Mr Jackson was one of the bad men who took me, then you must have known something about it, because you were always talking to him.”

   “What!” Jill could feel the colour draining from her face.

   “I know, he’s a fool,” Toby threw aside the towel and sat down at the table. “Me and the lads are out with him. He is a pig, but I wish I could have told him, you know. About Rachael’s Mam and stuff, but I can’t.”

   “No, Toby, you can’t, and you know why, don’t you?” Jill knelt beside her son, repeating again the reasons why. “We would all be in terrible trouble if anyone found out how we found you. What we did was against the law and a lot of good people would go to jail for helping me. You understand, don’t you?”

   “Yeah, I know, and I’ll never tell because I crossed my heart and everything,” he reached out and brushed a stray hair from her face. “But I know Mr Jackson is dead, the lads told me, and the other bad men too.”

   “Yes, they are, but that had nothing to do with you,” his touch made Jill’s throat grow tight with unshed tears.

   “Yeah, I know. Rachael’s Mam killed them.

   “How do you know that?

   “Rachael told me.”

   “When?” Jill tried to keep her voice steady.

   “When we were in that place, you know?” He was bored from her questions.

   “Oh, right,” Jill stood and made a great show of checking on the chicken. “What did Rachael, say?”

   “She said her Mam would freak out when she found them. That she would be so mad at the bad men she might tear them limb from limb, but she was always saying stupid things like that,” he looked up to heaven and sighed,” Girls.”

   Jill’s hands shook as she helped him set the table for dinner. The gossips in the village felt she knew about her son’s disappearance. That was it, the final straw; and she was glad he would no longer live in this place. Despite her fear she’d somehow manage to get through this night with as much normality as possible. Later, when the house was quiet, she’d write Toby a letter explaining the truth about what happened. She could post it to her solicitor on her way through the village later with instructions he’d receive it on his twenty-fifth birthday. By then, he would be mature enough to understand her actions. She would also fashion a makeshift will and get her father to witness it. The house would be sold, the proceeds put in trust for her son, with instructions that her parents would be his main guardians, but giving Joe visitation rights, should he decide to ask for such. Now all she had to do was get through dinner and put her son to bed as though everything was all right.

She’d visit the graveyard as late as possible. Although it was a weeknight, the pubs would be busy as those who attended the funeral would have tales to tell. No one could blame them if they drank a little too much that night. Many of the pubs’ patrons entrusted their children to the care of Dominic Jackson, and the horror of what he did and what he might have continued to do, would reverberate for many years to come.

The Wraith

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on May 9, 2020
Posted in: birdsong, hope faith God whispers heaven, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Halloween, Haunted Houses, horror, memories, monsters, passion, revenge, scary, sleeplessness, twlight, Witchcraft, Witches, wraiths, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Well, my friends, just three more chapters and an epilogue to go. I hope you have enjoyed my little offering and that it did something to take your mind away from the true horror of the virus. Since the beginning of time, when cavemen gathered around blazing fires and told tales of strange spiritual beings that haunted the land, the horror stories have tried to take the mind away from the very real dangers lurking outside our little sanctuaries. In Ireland we are still in lock-down, as we strive to protect our loved ones from the danger that threatens us. I hope wherever you are, that you and those you love are safe and well. Happy reading.

The Wraith-chapter thirty four

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on May 8, 2020
Posted in: birdsong, hope faith God whispers heaven, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Halloween, Haunted Houses, insomnia, memories, monsters, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, Witchcraft, Witches, wraiths, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

         There was no mistaking her mother’s nod of disapproval, as she drew their attention to the visitor in the hallway. Jill knew her mother had always been a bit of a snob and regarded the police as somewhat beneath her. Desperate to get Paul out of the house and away from her cutting gaze, Jill suggested they take a walk. Her eyes were heavy from lack of sleep and the sudden glare of the wintry sun blinded her. Shrugging on her coat, she gestured to Paul to follow her. Neither of them spoke, as they made their way around the side of the house to the orchard. The freezing morning air stung her face and she brushed back her hair, aware how dishevelled she must look. The beauty of the scene was lost on her as overnight the trees were painted white by the frost. Silver hung between the bare branches and reflected the light from the watery sun. The small bench where she always sat was given the same treatment as the overhanging boughs, but she sat anyway, uncaring of the wetness and cold of the wood.

   “You look done in,” Paul said.

She tried to look up at him, but the light from the sun dazzled her, and she shaded her eyes.

   “Sit down, I can’t see you,” she moved to one side of the bench and made room for him.

   “You don’t look too well yourself,” she said, once she could see him properly.

Like her, Paul hadn’t slept very well over the past four days.

   “I’ve been tying up some loose ends,” he said. “There was a lot to sort out.”

It was obvious from his blood-shot eyes and the dark stubble on his chin he hadn’t been home.

   “Has there been any sign of her?” He asked.

There was no need for Jill to ask who he meant.

   “No, nothing, but it’s only a matter of time.”

   “Christ,” he ran his hand over his chin. “This just gets worse and worse.”

   “Why,” Jill asked. “What’s happening?”

She listened, hardly daring to breathe as he recounted the events of the last few days. His superiors were suspicious at first, when the anonymous tip led him to the cottage, but the horror of what was found there soon had their minds on other things.

   “I had to get there first,” he explained. “I was afraid some of Toby’s belongings would still be in the cottage, but I needn’t have worried.”

   “Was it bad?” Jill felt her throat grow tight with fear.

   “The building itself was no more than a shell. What remained of the contents still smouldered, but that was just on ground level. I couldn’t leave anything to chance,” he looked at her and his eyes were troubled. “I had to see what state the cellar was in.”

   “And?” Jill closed her eyes, not wanting to hear and yet needing to.

   “The fire reached the lower level; either that or the old oil lamp was knocked over in the struggle. At least, that’s what I told my superiors and they seemed to accept it, but the smell!”

The stench of the men’s roasted flesh seemed to cling to his skin, and he retched as he thought about it.

   “I’m all right,” he brushed aside Jill’s hand on his arm and stood up.

Leaning against the trunk of one of the trees, he gulped in mouthfuls of the frosty air, hoping its freshness would help steady his churning stomach.

   “That’s what I’ve been doing,” he turned back to face her, now he felt steadier. “Going over the ground with the scene of crime people trying to cover our tracks.”

   “What do you mean,” Jill asked. “I thought the fire had done that?”

   “I mean the diary,” Paul said. “The one he wrote about. I couldn’t just leave it to be found, could I? There was too much information in it that might start the investigators asking questions, and it wouldn’t have been long until it led them to you.”

   “What did you do with it?”

   “Nothing yet. It’s in the boot of the car. I read it,” he shook his head in wonder at the horror within its pages. “He was one sick fuck.”

There was no disagreeing with that.

   “There’s something else,” he frowned. “I don’t want you to worry, but I have to tell you.”

   “What is it?” Jill felt the familiar knot of fear form in her stomach.

   “According to the diary, he posted letters. To his sick companions warning them the game was up and to the police, perhaps, taunting them. I won’t know until the letter arrives. It seems he intended to die and wanted the last laugh. The reason I’m telling you all this is it may come back to haunt us, and I want you to be ready.”

   “I may not be around if it does,” Jill said. “You might have to face the music alone.”

   “We’ll fight that battle when we come to it, for now we can only wait. How is Toby by the way?”

   “Remarkably well, considering. Have you heard from Tom?”

   “I saw him this morning. He’s holding up, but I don’t envy him the days ahead.” Paul sat back down beside her.

   “The funeral’s tomorrow, little Rachael’s I mean. They’ve released her body for burial. I say body, but there was nothing there other than a pile of bones.”

He’d spare her the description of watching as the contents of the three small mounds were uncovered. Of the tiny white bones dusted free of the dirt of the grave, until they lay exposed to the elements, resembling nothing human, nothing real. She was spared the sound of Tom’s anguished sobs as he watched from behind the yellow tape that cordoned off the crime scene, and she didn’t witness the pitiful sight of the three grey mortuary coffins being loaded into the van. No, she didn’t need to hear this, as there was still so much suffering to come, and nothing under heaven could prevent what was about to happen to her.

   “I haven’t tried to contact Tom,” she said. “I was afraid seeing him would remind it was real and not part of some terrible nightmare. That makes me a coward, I know,” she shrugged. “But I have to face up to it sometime. I told my father.”

He looked at her in dismay.

   “I know,” she tried to smile. “I can hardly believe it myself, but as always, he was a rock of sense and I know what has to be done.”

   “With the thing, the…”

   “The Wraith,” she finished the sentence for him. “Yes, I’ll set her free; it’s only fair I send her back where she belongs.”

   “But you’ll be playing into her hands,” he stood and paced the along the path between the trees.

The frost-coated grass crunched beneath his feet.

   “She could come here at any time.” She called to him. “You’ve seen what she’s capable of. This delay is nothing more than a game to her. She’s tormenting me, making me pay for what I’ve done by delaying the inevitable.”

   “When will you go?” He knew there was no point in trying to talk her out of it.

   “Tonight.”

   “The grave may already be open,” he warned. “They sometimes dig them the night before the funeral in preparation, especially when the weather is dry. There’s no sign of rain,” he looked up at the sky. “And there’s not going to be any, not with this cold.”

Jill saw the image of the open grave in her mind, and she could envision the rawness of the dark hole.

   “Perhaps, I should leave it until tomorrow night?

   “That might be better, Christ,” the sound of his laugh echoed in the still air. “I can’t believe we’re talking like this. I had no idea how happy I was in my ignorance of such things, but I suppose there’s no going back.”

   “No,” she agreed. “There’s no going back, and no escape from what has to be.”

   “Will you come to the funeral?”

His question startled her.

   “I couldn’t bear it.”

   “No one would blame you. I’m not looking forward to it myself, but I’m going for Tom. He’ll need a shoulder to cry on in the coming days.”

   “So, will Toby and my parents,” Jill said. “I hope you’ll be there for them when the time comes?”

   “Count on it,” he put his arm around her shoulder and led her back along the side of the house to the yard. “And I’ll be there for you too, tomorrow night.”

   “No,” Jill cried. “Promise me you won’t do that, please?”

Her eyes filled with tears as she looked up at him.

   “I need to know you’re safe, that Toby has someone other than my parents to trust, promise me?”

   “If that’s what you want,” he said, with a lump in his throat.

   “It is,” she wiped away a tear from her cheek. “I’ll rest easier knowing you’re there for him.”

   “I promise,” he kissed her forehead and the skin against his lips felt cold as marble.

   “Thank you.”

They walked in easy silence back towards his car, unaware of the prying eyes that watched from inside the house.

Paul reached into the open car boot and moved aside a stack of files and paper, searching for the thing he’d hidden there.

   “I thought you might want to hide it up there,” he nodded up at the roof of the house.

Jill took the diary and slipped it inside her coat.

   “I’ll put it at the bottom of one of the trunks,” she said. “Hopefully no one will find it, at least not until long after you and I are gone.”

   “I’ll say goodbye then,” Paul held out his hand, but she ignored it and wrapped her arms around him.

   “Goodbye, my friend,” her voice was muffled by his coat.

Once inside the car, he refused to look back. He didn’t notice how she stood aside to allow him to back out, and he flipped the rear-view mirror up so he wouldn’t see her reflection. He managed to steer the car out though the yard gates, despite the tears that flowed blurring his vision. He kept the most frightening thing of all from her, and he wondered now at the wisdom of his actions. Despite the condition of the men’s bodies after the fire, it hadn’t been the cause of their deaths. Even he, who witnessed most things in his job, had never seen such carnage. It looked as though the men were attacked by a wild animal. Clumps of hair and brain matter coated the walls of the cellar as the bodies were torn asunder. He could have told her this, but it wouldn’t stop her doing what she had to do. A force he would never understand drove her on. Only a woman would ever know the true meaning of the words, mother love.