The Wraith- chapter five

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on April 6, 2020
Posted in: books, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, gloom, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, horror, Paranormal, revenge, scary, twlight, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , . Leave a comment

CHAPTER FIVE

         Days passed in a flurry of housework for Jill, as she struggled to fill the rubbish skip that arrived as promised, on Thursday. The driver who delivered it was a jovial, friendly sort, and told her she could keep it over the weekend at no extra cost. This made the task easier, and with Toby’s help she cleared all the clutter from the remaining rooms. She managed to track down a chimney sweep, who cleaned the flues and assured her it would be safe to light fires in the bedrooms.

   It was Monday afternoon, when Jill heard the steady beep, beep as the truck reversed up to the skip. The pile of rubbish it held was an eyesore, and she would be glad when it was gone. Toby ran outside to watch as the driver spread nets and rope over the top, securing the load in place. When she looked through the kitchen window, she saw her son and the driver deep in conversation. Toby was, no doubt, asking dozens of questions about the workings of the truck. She noticed, how anxious he was to speak to any man they met, be it in the shops or on the street. It was the same with the chimney sweep, and he followed him from room to room, watching as he worked and driving him insane with questions. The engine of the truck started up and she heard the groan of the hydraulic lift as it picked up the skip. Once the noise died down, she went outside to pay the driver.

   “I hope he hasn’t been annoying you?” She handed him the envelope.

   “Not at all,” he patted Toby’s head. “I’m used to it. I have a nephew about the same age.”

   “He’s in my school,” Toby added.

   “Well, thanks a lot,” she started to lead her son away. “I’m glad to see the back of that.”

   “No problem,” he climbed up in to the cab.

They watched as he drove away, Toby waving until he was out of sight. When they got back inside the house, Jill noticed he was chewing something.

   “What are you eating?”

   “Toffee,” he opened his mouth.

   “Where did you get it?”

   “Mike gave it to me.”

   “I’ve warned you about taking sweets from strangers.”

   “But I know him,” Toby’s voice rose to a whine.

   “Not really,” she tried to be reasonable. “You only met him today.”

   “And the day he brought the skip.”

   “He’s still a stranger.”

   “Awe, leave me alone,” he stomped up the stairs to his room.

The headlines of the old newspapers made her more watchful, and she hoped her need to protect him had not spoiled the new bond that formed over the past few days. Resolving she would not allow this to happen, she prepared his favourite dinner and carried it up to his room on a tray. She knew he would see it as a white flag. He was lying on the bed reading when she peeped inside, and he gave her a sullen look, until he saw the tray.

   “I thought you’d like to eat up here for a change.”

He sat up, and allowed her to place the tray on his lap.

   “Yeah, thanks,” he plunged a fork into the nearest chicken nugget.

   “Listen,” she sat beside him. “I’m sorry for the dramatics. I worry about you, you know?”

   “I know,” he chewed for a moment. “But I’m big now, and I know when someone is bad.”

   “Yes, I know you are,” she struggled to find the right words. “But bad people don’t always look bad, if you know what I mean. They don’t all wear masks like in the cartoons.”

   “God, I know that,” he threw down his fork and folded his arms across his chest.

   “Of course, you do,” she stood. “It’s me, I’m just being silly.”

   “Yeah, you are,” this seemed to appease him, and he started back on his food.

Pausing in the doorway, she looked back at him.

   “I love you more than anyone in the world,” she said.

   “I love you too,” he blushed.

   “Take it easy with me, if I go a little over the top sometimes.”

   “It’s o.k.,” he shrugged. “I know you can’t help it.” 

So, she was forgiven her moment of madness, but she knew all mothers were the same, when it came to protecting their children.

          Her appointment with Toby’s teacher was for eleven the next day. He arranged it so the boy did not see his mother when she arrived at the school. This was at her request, as she didn’t want to antagonise her son any further. Luckily the class were on a nature ramble, and she was free to wander the corridors without fear of running into him. She saw through the glass panel in the door that Mr. Jackson, Toby’s teacher, was waiting for her, and he motioned her in before she could knock.

   “Mrs Purcell?” He held out his hand.

   “It’s Miss,” she blushed.

She imagined from Toby’s description that his teacher would be older, and she grew uncomfortable, as he motioned her to sit. To her relief, she was not forced to huddle down in one of the child-sized chairs, as he had arranged for a normal chair to be brought in. The smell of the classroom was familiar, the air filled with the scent of chalk dust and books, and she looked around the walls at art work that belonged to the children.

   “We have some budding Van Goughs here,” Mr. Jackson smiled.

   “Yes,” she had to admit that the colours were brighter than sunflowers.

   “You said you were worried about Toby?”

   “Yes,” she laced her fingers together and placed them in her lap feeling once more the pupil brought to task by the teacher.

   “Take your time,” his voice was calm and soothing.

   “I’m probably being silly,” she started. “It’s just that I have recently split up from Toby’s father. Well, if I’m being honest, he left us, and now with the move to a new area, I worried about how Toby is settling in.”

   “I know this is a challenging time, for both of you,” Mr Jackson said. “But you have no need to worry. Toby fits in very well here. He’s popular with the other children and his schoolwork is frankly, remarkable, but don’t tell him I said so,” he laughed. “He really is very gifted and he loves the art class. I was speaking to Mr. Keane, his art teacher the other day, and he remarked on how well Toby was doing. Perhaps,” he mused. “You would like to speak to him? He spends more individual time with his students than I do, as his classes are much smaller. We divide the students in two groups, those who prefer games and arts. Not all boys like the same things and we don’t believe in pushing them in to doing something in which they have no interest.”

   “That would be great, thank you.”

He stood, and Jill followed him. For such a small village, the school seemed rather large, and she questioned him on this as they walked.

   “People drive their children from all over surrounding counties,” he said. “We have quite a reputation, and they are happy to drive the extra few miles. The children from the village only make up a third of our students.”

She had to admit that the school was impressive. She considered each classroom, as they passed through the maze of corridors that led to the art room. The rooms were all painted in bright, cheery colours, none of the staid, drab greys she remembered from her schooldays. The mumbling voices drifting out made her recall her times tables, and she started to recite them in her head.

   “Here we are,” he stopped, outside the art room.

Hundreds of paintings lined the walls outside and a multi-coloured sign proclaimed that they were indeed at the right place.

   “I’ll get Mr Keane for you,” He said, tapping on the door.

A class was in session, and she waited while he slipped inside. He returned to say the teacher would be with her shortly.

   “His class is almost finished, so if you wait, it shouldn’t be too long.”

   “Thank you, you’ve been very kind.”

They shook hands and he left her with a guarantee that she was free to call on him at any time. She hoped the heat she felt from his touch was not transmitted to her cheeks, and she scolded herself for her foolishness. A clatter of chairs scraped across the floor of the art room. The door flew open and children surged through it. Each held a sheet of paper, the product of the day’s work. No one paid her much attention as they passed, too intent on reaching their next class.

   “Miss Purcell.” The lisp reminded her of the snake in some cartoon, but she held out her hand to the man.

Mr. Jackson had informed him of her unmarried status.

   “Yes, hello,” she smiled.

   “Please come in,” he stood back to let her pass.

To her untrained eye, the art room seemed in chaos with easels dotted haphazardly and jars of paint lining each surface.

   “I like to promote a feeling of freedom,” he said, at her look of dismay. “I want my students to express their inner emotions.”

   “Now,” he perched on a corner of his desk. “Dominic tells me you are concerned about Toby?”

   “Yes.” She was pleased to learn Mr Jackson’s first name. “We’re new to the area, and I was wondering how he’s settling in.”

   “I have no problem with his work; in fact, he’s really gifted.”

The man’s lisp made the really, sound like wheelie. A small operation would have saved him years of torment. He was thin, to the point of emaciation, and the skin on his face stretched over the bones, giving him a feral look that would have been frightening, had he not seemed so comical. Admonishing herself for such unkind thoughts, she continued.

   “Has he said anything to you about his father?”

   “He has said on occasion that he misses him, but it’s only normal.”

   “When does he say this?”

   “Sometimes he stays after class to help me clean up, of his own accord I assure you,” he was quick to point out.

   “I understand, I’m concerned he’s not able to confide in me.”

   “Sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger or someone outside the family, don’t you think?”

   “Yes, I’m sure you’re right, but it bothers me nevertheless.”

   “Be assured,” he smiled, drawing his thin lips back even further over his teeth and reminding her of a wolf. “If I was the slightest bit concerned, I would contact you immediately.”

   “Well, thank you,” she held out her hand. “You have put my mind at rest.”

   “Glad to help,” he took her hand in his and the feel of his bones beneath the skin made her stomach turn.

She was relieved to be out of the room and hurried down the corridor to the door marked exit. Leaning on the steel bar, she pushed, praying it wasn’t alarmed. The chilly air felt like a slap on her face, when she burst through to the school yard, and she gathered her coat closer. Once inside the car, she tried to take stock. The art teacher unsettled her and she wondered why? She’d never had such a reaction to another human being. He’s an ordinary man, she thought, as she turned on the ignition, he’s probably married with children. Still, he was not the sort of man she imagined her son confiding in, but then, perhaps, she was being unfair. Her mind was all over the place of late, and her imagination was apt to play tricks on her. Deciding she would question her son about his teachers when he got home, she tried to put the incident out of her mind.

  Looking back at the classroom windows, she was surprised to see the art teacher watching her. In the dim, grey light his face looked ghost-like, and she waited until he retreated into the shadows before driving away.

The Wraith-chapter 4

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on April 4, 2020
Posted in: books, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, Gothic novel, graveyards, horror, Paranormal, Witchcraft, Witches. Tagged: , , , , . Leave a comment

CHAPTER FOUR

          A drop of rain trickled down his neck causing Paul O’Farrell to shiver. It was not just its icy touch that filled him with unease, but the encounter with the driver of the red car. He had seen that look before, countless times, and it was hard to forget. In a way, it mirrored how he felt. It spoke of sadness, loneliness and an absence of hope. Cursing under his breath for not being quick enough to note her registration, he climbed into his car. The interior felt damp and he turned on the engine and waited for the heater to warm up. Sighing, he adjusted the rear-view mirror, and shook his head in disgust at the face staring back at him. The bags under his eyes were put there by lack of sleep and over-familiarity with the whiskey bottle. Though never a heavy drinker, like so many of his colleagues, who used the alcohol to deaden the pain of things they were forced to witness, it had become a companion of sorts over the past eighteen months.

   Losing Maura, his wife of thirty-eight years to cancer hit him hard. While his days were filled with emptiness, he still had a job to do, but the nights…At first, he had tried to fill the endless hours cleaning the house, copying the chores he had once taken for granted, but he soon gave up as the repeated monotony of the work started to get him down.

Now the furniture lay under a cloud of dust, and clutter had begun to accumulate. The truth was he didn’t have the heart for it, and other than the greasy, stodgy meals he ate in the staff canteen he never bothered to cook at home. These days his dinner consisted of peanuts and crisps, washed down with copious amounts of whiskey. Sometimes the gods were kind, and the effects of the alcohol, added to exhaustion, meant he got some sleep, even if he woke stiff and sore in the chair the next morning. Mostly it went to the other extreme and he became hyper and wandered the house, cursing his luck and the emptiness of his life.

   His two sons, married with families of their own, had little time for him. Other than a card at Father’s Day and Christmas, he never heard from them, and the reassurance they offered on the day of the funeral, that they were only a phone call away, meant nothing. If only they had a daughter, things might have been different. Girls were caring and not as quick to abandon those they loved.

   Blinking and wiping his eyes, he put the car in gear and headed out of the forecourt. As the only sergeant in the station meant he had to muddle in with the men on the beat, and since crime in the village was of the petty type, he faced days of reruns, as he interviewed the same old faces for the same old crimes. The small council estate spawned its fair share of criminals, and this was where he was heading now, to answer a report of domestic violence. With a bit of luck, they’ll have killed one another by the time I get there, he thought, as he steered the car down the main street and up the hill.

          As usual the roads were littered with beer cans and broken bottles. Bedraggled horses, tied to fence poles, stared back at him, sodden manes clinging to their necks and long faces looking as glum as he felt. Steering from left to right, he managed to avoid most of the potholes and the odd hooded figure that ran across his path, before pulling to the curb. The sound of battle could be heard as soon as he opened his door, and he walked, shoulders slumped, down the weed-covered path. The handle had fallen off the letterbox and, as there was no doorbell, he rapped with his fist on the wood. His first knock went unanswered, as the noise inside drowned it out. He waited a moment before balling his hand into a tight ball and pounding with all his might. The sound was enough to bring the screaming inside to a sudden halt. Taking a deep breath, he waited as fumbling fingers struggled with the lock.

   “You took your fuckin time,” the harridan who threw open the door roared.

Her beery breath mad him draw back a little as she tottered towards him, and he placed a hand against her shoulder in case she fell.

   “What seems to be the trouble?”

    Always one to go by the book, he winced, as he asked the same, stupid question. Mona and Pat Cusack were famous for their rows, and had the weather been more clement, would by now be keeping most of the street entertained. As it was, no one had braved the rain and the cutting wind, not even for a laugh. Those who lived within hearing distance of the couple had little to laugh about themselves. Paul knew most of the residents were drawing unemployment and subsidising this with shoplifting and petty thievery. The only shop in the estate was forced to close because of this, the stock disappearing as quickly as it was placed it on the shelves. Though no one would have described the owner as a clever man, he soon realised his accounts did not tally, and as any attempt to stop this mini crime wave was met with threats of violence, he soon shut up shop.

   “Are you fuckin listening to me?”

     The question brought him back, and he stared into the blood-shot eyes of the woman who had spoken.

   “Yes, Mona,” he shooed her back inside the house, and stepped into the stale-smelling hall.

The linoleum on the floor was torn, jagged-looking tufts stuck up here and there. Dirt gathered on its surface, provided a sort of Velcro effect, and he lifted his feet from its pull with a resounding squelch. The stairs were plain boards, the wood stained from countless encounters with drunken hands and feet. The banisters, which someone had attempted to paint white, were peeling, and he was about to follow the woman into the front room when a small sob from overhead made him look up.

   Two small children stared down at him, their eyes bright with tears and terror. Though he realised the little boy and girl were of school age, it would be useless to protest their absence from the classroom, and any suggestion on his part would only serve to antagonise the battling couple. It was afternoon, but the children were still in pyjamas, and the girl’s hair stood on end in a rat’s nest of knots.

   “It’s all right,” Paul motioned them to go back to their rooms.

   “We’re hungry,” the boy whined, and his sister nodded in agreement.

The sound of battle started again and he left them, promising something to eat when he was finished.

   The heat in the front room was stifling in contrast to the hall. A huge fire roared in the grate, and intensified the stench of the stained carpet and chairs. Pat Cusack sat in one of the chairs a beer can resting on the arm, legs stretched out in front of him.

   “This is all I fuckin’ need,” he snorted when he saw Paul, and brought the can to his lips, taking another deep swallow, before tossing it on the floor and replacing it with another.

   “Your wife made a complaint about you.” Paul tried to ignore the burning dryness of his throat, and the hiss of the bubbling foam.

   “So, what?” Pat sneered. “She’s always fuckin’ complaining about something, stupid bitch.”

This comment was aimed at his wife, who sat opposite him, and for a woman in such inebriated condition, her aim was accurate. The beer can she was holding caught her husband on the forehead. His roar of rage, more at the waste of good liquor than the assault, sent him springing from his chair. Only Paul’s hand on his collar saved Mona from a beating, as her husband was dragged back to the chair.

   “Give it over,” Paul roared, looking from one to the other. “Any more of this and I’m taking you to the station.”

   “Fuckin’ bitch,” Pat was too busy wiping his face with a seat cushion to notice what was said.

   “I mean it,” Paul pulled the cushion from his hands. “I’m sick and tired of coming here to break you two up. If you can’t get on with one another, why don’t you part company?”

   “Listen to him,” Mona sneered. “Mr fuckin’ know-it-all. Why don’t you fuck off back to the station and leave us alone?”

    “You called me here, remember?”

   “Yeah, well, now I’m telling you to fuck off,” she struggled out of her chair and made a swipe for him.

   All her anger was transferred from her husband to him.

   “Give it over,” he caught her arm, twisted her around and threw her back into her chair.

   “Hey, that’s not on,” her husband roared, but made no attempt to come to her rescue.

   “No, and all this is not on either,” Paul no longer controlled his temper. “I’m sick and tired of acting as referee between people like you.”

   “People like us,” Mona laughed. “Listen to his fuckin’ lordship. Who the fuck do you think you are?”

   “Shut up and listen.” Paul’s bellow stunned her in to silence. “The next time you ring for assistance you won’t get it. You can kill one another for all I care, but there are two young children up there,” he pointed at the ceiling. “They need feeding and it is your job to do it.” He glared at Mona.

   “There’s plenty of food in the kitchen,” she retorted. “They know where it is, if they want it.”

   “Really?” Paul asked, before heading down the hall to the kitchen.

This too was freezing, but the cold was welcome after the stifling heat of the front room. He tried not to think of how cold the bedrooms the children slept in felt. He drew back at the stench wafting from the fridge when he opened the door. The wire shelves were removed from inside, and other than a small mountain of cheap beer, a half carton of out-of-date milk and some dry, mouldy carrots, there was nothing. The presses that lined the walls were the same, and his attempt at foraging did little other than disturb the colony of ants that swept over the packets of spilled sugar and gravy mix.

   The children’s eyes searched his face as he emerged from the kitchen. When they saw he was empty-handed, the boy’s lip trembled, but his sister shushed him and waited.

   “I’ll get you something to eat, okay?” Paul asked.

Both nodded, and he smiled at them before going back to the front room, where their parents now sat in stony silence.

   “There’s no food in the house,” he looked at Mona.

   “Well, we’ve no fuckin money,” her husband answered for her.

   “You have enough money for beer.”

   “Fuck you,” he turned his attention to the fire and the leaping flames.

   “I’m going to get the children something to eat,” Paul said, before walking from the room. “Back in a minute,” he promised the huddled forms on the stairs.

   As he drove down the hill to the takeaway, he smiled, remembering his wife’s teasing. “You think you can change the world single handed,” she always said, and she was right, especially when it came to children in need. Before he got out of the car, he made a note to contact social services. Those children needed proper food and schooling, and they were not going to get it where they were.

The smell of the two white bundles pervaded the car’s interior as he drove back to the house. While the vinegary aroma on the chips was appetising, he had no stomach for food. His insides felt raw from the whiskey, and a sharp pain in his side told him his liver was also feeling the effects. Pat opened the door and snatched the bundles of food from him.

   “They’re for the children,” Paul warned.

   “Yeah, whatever,” he closed the door before Paul could protest further.

He listened a moment for the sound of footfalls on the stair boards, and when there was none, inched his way along the small path to the window of the front room. The couple were sitting exactly as he had left them, but the glare of the white paper spread across both their laps incensed him, and he pounded on the glass.

   “Those were meant for the children,” he roared.

Pat picked up one of the hamburgers and wiggled it at him, before stuffing it in to his mouth. Mona dropped the bundle on to the floor and staggered over to the window. Lifting the latch, she opened it just enough so that he could hear.

   “If you are so fuckin’ worried about children, why don’t you find the one that’s missing?”

   “Yeah,” her husband joined in her taunts. “You didn’t do such a good job there, did you, you cunt?”

He heard them laughing as he walked back to the car. His hands shook as he tried to place the key in the ignition, but despite the coarseness of their words, he knew they were right. He was a failure.

The Wraith-chapter three

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on March 30, 2020
Posted in: books, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, horror, Paranormal. Tagged: , , , , . Leave a comment

 

CHAPTER THREE

 

         While Christopher was the proverbial rotten apple, we were open to corruption, and willing pupils to his teachings and perversions, even at the tender age of seven. I won’t try to justify the reason we became what we are, other than say the sense of abandonment we felt being sent to Erebus House. The, boarding school for young men drew us together and the mutual hatred we felt for our parents was the glue that bound us. But we were not young men; we were seven-years-old and terrified. All except Christopher. As I said, this doesn’t excuse our behaviour, as many children have suffered the same fate and emerged unscathed to become useful members of society. We were different, though outwardly normal. There is a flaw in our characters or something not right in our genetic makeup. There I go, making excuses and there’s no need. Our end is at hand and soon the sword that’s swinging over our heads will fall and justice done. Do you sense I’m tired, and when the day comes, I’ll be glad it’s over? Then you’re right, but first, I’d like to tell you how it all came about. To get my side of the story in before the screaming headlines of the tabloids embellish it further, but they could do little harm as the horror of what we are is true. If the large, bold capitals declare a killer paedophile ring was taken into custody, they are telling the truth. We are monsters. Abominations shouldn’t be allowed to live, and the coming years will be hellish for both my comrades. I intend to take my own life. Not for me the foul, disinfectant-smelling cells, and I refuse to breathe the same air as the rabble I’ve seen led in handcuffs from the local court. If after all I’ve divulged you can continue to read on, I’ll tell you how it began. Afterwards I’ll let the others speak for themselves and watch with you until the end.

 

   Erebus house is a Victorian manor that no amount of restoration could disguise its crumbling decay. Though the outward appearance was of a sturdy, sound structure, those of us who lived within it, soon came to know its flaws. We became adapt at dodging the crumbling bits of masonry falling from its roof and walls. I will never forget the first time I laid eyes on my prison. That’s what it was for the next nine years. After living in the city and being used to the high-rise apartment blocks and the odd skyscraper, nothing prepared me for this forbidding, Gothic pile. It was the stuff of Victorian melodrama with its mullioned windows, spiked turrets and yawning great door. Set amid acres of woodland and reached by a drive that stretched for miles, it promised ghosts, vampires and frightening, nameless things.

I was delivered there by my Father; I say delivered as he was not so much sending me off to school as ridding himself of one more unwanted thing. My mother died a month before and he was cleaning away her belongings, her clothes, jewellery and me. Though very young, I was aware my parents’ marriage was not a happy one and their pretence of normality was stiff and arid. Her untimely death was a blessing and allowed him the freedom he so obviously dreamt of. I was the last irritating object he had to rid himself of, and the best way he knew of doing this was boarding school. It meant nothing to me my fate was decided this way. I was a solitary little boy, the vast chasm of their marriage widened to exclude me, and there was no way across. What little attention I got was from the series of nannies that came and went as my mother’s moods saw fit. I soon learned to cope with the disappearance of a familiar face.

   Even the onslaught of my mother’s illness didn’t touch me. She never asked to see me, her sickroom was out of bounds. So, I watched as the procession of white-coated nurses walked by me with trays of strange-smelling medicines. I didn’t care when they took her away and the pats on the head, I received from well-wishers at her graveside meant nothing. I learned not to react to anything, and even when they took my cat, Tiger from me, I did nothing. They said I’d hurt him. I did. I wanted him to express the pain I was hiding. Either way, I ended up at Erebus House.

  

   My Father shook hands with me on the drive outside the school. It was an awkward moment for both of us, and a rather cold ending to our relationship. I didn’t know it would be the last time I’d see him, or the coldness of our parting would affect me in later years. If only…but then, it’s too late for that now, I am what I am.

   I arrived at Erebus in the autumn. I remember the bare trees and their fallen colours on either side of the drive, as we approached the house. The gold, red, copper and orange of the leaves carpeted the wood’s floor and stood out brilliantly against the grey of the building. He never came inside, preferring to leave me in the hands of the headmaster and if he felt any remorse at leaving me behind, it never showed. I called out to him as he climbed back into his car. I’ve no idea what I meant to say, I doubt I would have asked him to take me with him, but I know I needed…something.

 

   The interior of the house was vast and cavernous. Our footsteps thundered on the stripped boards of the stairs, and even the catch of my breath echoed in the stillness. I was informed by the headmaster, a kindly man, that my school mates were all at lessons and I would soon settle in. If he mistook my silence for worry at being in an unfamiliar environment, it was easier to let him think so.

   The dormitory I shared with nineteen other boys smelled musty, the air chill. I was left to settle in with the promise someone from an upper form would show me the ropes. I put my clothes away and placed my suitcase on top of the wardrobe. For a while I wandered the room and the small toilet off it, familiarising myself with the general layout. With nothing to do, but wait, I lay down on my bed. It was then I felt the first stirring of fear. Above my head, the wooden beams lining the wall stretched into an arch to form the ceiling. They rose for miles and the corners of each beam were shrouded in shadow. The only things visible were cobwebs gathered in abundance in dark places. To someone with a lifelong terror of spiders the ceiling was the stuff of nightmares. I tried not to envision the watchful eyes hiding behind each cobweb; there was no denying their existence or the scuttling of their inhabitants.

  

   My first night under the gables of Erebus was uneventful. The other boys paid me little attention, other than to offer the odd nod or thinly veiled sneer of contempt. I am slight of build. The years have added little bulk to my frame, and I remain rather weedy. I am short in stature and this made me a perfect victim for the bully.  The intervention of Christopher saved me from many a pummelling. He sought me out on my first week at the school. I’d just learned the workings of the place and stayed behind in the dorm while the others went to football practise. My grasp of French nouns was weak, and I decided to put the time to effective use by studying. In the ensuing years, I’ve often wondered if he sensed the weakness in me, the same way the bullies did. I looked up from my book to find him standing there with his sidekick Freddy Leeson beside him. It was whispered you never saw one without the other. I thought this strange as they were so different. Christopher, Christy to his friends, was streetwise and walked with a swagger belying his age. He was two years old than I and to my eyes a shining example of what I could achieve with the right training. His exploits were legendary, and it was whispered the older, bigger boys avoided him. He was vicious in a fight and cunning in his revenge on his enemies. His father, aware his son was on a downward path, begged the school fees from a cousin. His belief a school like Erebus would have a soothing effect on his son was sorely misplaced.  All it did was harness his negative energy in one place. His new-found hatred of his father, for removing him from the streets, and the anger he felt needed release in some form. The fact he chose me was an honour and the day he invited me to their den in the woods I was happy beyond words. Though I tried to ignore the fearful glances of the other boys as I followed them through the trees, there was something in the way they looked at me made me watchful.

   The den was an old shed that one time belonged to the gardener. This was when the house was in its prime. Now the front lawn and the drive were tended to by a man who called weekly in his truck. The rest of the grounds could return to their natural state. This made it an ideal place for the boys to run and hide, and there were many such dens within its leafy shadows. None near Christy’s.

   The interior was musty with the scent of old rope and blankets. A small bed sat on one side, and a crude wooden table completed the look. Two upturned drinks crates were used as seats, and I was told one would be supplied for me if I passed the test admitting me into his gang. During our discussion, Freddy remained mute, other than to nod his head, when a question was thrown at him. I knew Christy was the dominant leader. The initiation began in a harmless way: questions about my family and the reason I was at Erebus. Something in my tone told him I felt lost and abandoned, and the arm he placed around my shoulder was the first friendly touch I’d received in years. He became my mentor and friend and while his teachings weren’t what I expected, I never balked at whatever task he set.

   The fumes from the whiskey bottle were stifling in the small room and the first gulp I took burned my throat and made my eyes water. My distress sent him and Freddy into fits of laughter and I joined in their merriment. The bottle was passed around and I dreaded each time it was my turn. My stomach revolted at each fiery sip and my head swam. The walls of the shed moved of their own accord. I don’t remember being helped onto the bed and have a slight recollection of the cool air on my skin as my pants were pulled down. But the pain at the intrusion into my body! The pain I’ll remember forever.

   There was no one to help me as we were at free period and wouldn’t be missed until dinner time. I’ve no idea how long I lay on those filthy blankets, but enough time elapsed for my head to clear. Christy and Freddy were seated on the crates as I slid off the bed and pulled up my pants. I prayed neither of them noticed how my fingers trembled as I struggled to do up my buttons. Even after their vicious assault on my body their good opinion counted. I was led back to the school with words of warning ringing in my ears. I would tell no one and they were happy when this promise was extracted.

   I excused my absence from the dining hall claiming I had a headache. Though this was accepted without question by the head boy, there was something in his eyes, a knowing look and his pat on my shoulder told me he was there if I needed him. It was too late; my descent into darkness had begun. My pants and underwear were bundled up and stuffed into the bottom of my wardrobe. Too blood-stained to be of further use, they’d remain in hiding until I found time to dump them in the bins. The water in the shower did little to relieve the pain of my torn body. I was shaking so much from the shock of the assault; I was forced to sit on my bed to dress.

   I felt no pain as the metal point of the compass sunk into the flesh on my wrists. The veins were easy to find, as I was a colourless boy, all black and white.

    I was a failure and my recovery in sick bay lasted a week. I’ve no recollection of how I got there and remember nothing of the screams of the boys who found me lying beside my bed. My assurance to the headmaster I didn’t want my father told and the promise I wouldn’t attempt such a foolish act again, was met with relief. Desperate to save his school from the scandal of an attempted suicide he agreed I was given a second chance, but only under the watchful scrutiny of those older than I. Christy and Freddy were my constant visitors during the days I lay in bed, and their presence didn’t alarm me. I became more and more enraptured by their stories, and the fact they took pleasure in bullying and hurting those weaker than they. By the end of that eventful week I came to believe their whispered promises and their assurances I was a member of their gang. It made the physical pain easier to bear and I emerged from the sick bay a disciple of evil.

The Wraith-chapter 2

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on March 28, 2020
Posted in: Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, Gothic novel, graveyards, horror. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

CHAPTER TWO

 

With shaking hands Jill unfurled the remaining three newspapers. The headline on each one was the same, though the face of the missing child was different. Moving to the edge of her seat, she pulled the papers closer and scanned the top of the page. They were printed years apart. Starting in 1999 and progressing in three yearly intervals. Her tension level increase as she read each report. From what little she learned from the few columns, the children were all abducted near their home, and there was no mention of them being found. A thud overhead made her look up. Toby was moving around and maybe; he would now be willing to eat.

The reception she received when she climbed the stairs was just as frosty as the one, he gave her at the school. She knew the anger he felt had to be directed at her, as he had no one else to vent it on. Using all her skills as a negotiator, she managed to get him to agree to chicken nuggets and fries. This was not the sort of food that she would normally feed him, but at least it was something. She watched him as he ate with head down and eyes fixed on his plate.

“I’ve hired a rubbish skip,” she said, trying to find something from her mundane day to interest him.

“Oh,” he looked up.

“Yes,” she tried to make it sound interesting. “There is so much rubbish here that I need to get rid of, and I was wondering if you’d give me a hand. You could even take tomorrow off school if you like.”

“Naw, can’t,” his head went back down. “I have a maths test.”

Well, Jill thought, that’s that, until…

“I could help you after school though,” he offered.

“You could?” She smiled down at him. “That would be great. There are too many spiders around here for my liking.”

“Women,” he laughed, before stuffing a nugget into his mouth, and the word made her heart ache, as he mimicked his father’s tone.

 

Jill’s mood was lighter as she cleared away the dishes. She could still feel the warmth of his small fingers on her skin, and she looked towards the photo of her grandmother on the dresser. It’s going to be all right, Nana, she smiled; I think we are going to make it.

The noise of the television in the room across the hall meant Toby would be entertained until bedtime. Meanwhile she’d continue clearing, at least until it became too dark outside. The long nights were drawing in fast and she looked towards the window and shivered. Though not afraid of the dark, there was something ominous in the back of her mind, something that warned of the danger that lurked in the blackness outside. Brushing aside such foolishness, she went back to her foraging, but no matter where she was in the room, her gaze was drawn back to the papers she placed on a chair, and the wide-eyed children who were lost. Promising herself she would go to the small local library next morning, after dropping Toby at school, she tried to avoid thinking about the outcome of each case, and the broken-hearted parents who might still be waiting.

 

The drive to school the next morning was more relaxed, and they managed to exchange a few words, mostly about the house and the clean-up, but it was a huge step forward. Toby smiled at her and stood waving through the bars as she pulled away from the curb. With a much lighter heart Jill drove into the library car park. At such an early hour, the place was deserted, and her footsteps echoed in the small room housing the books. After enquiring about access to microfiche, Jill followed the librarian to a tiny cupboard-like room and was shown how to work the machine. For a moment, just after the door closed, she felt entombed and looked around for another means of escape. There was a small, barred window in one wall, so the only way out was through the door. Brushing aside her fear, she started to scroll down the pages on the screen in front of her. Taking a notebook from her bag, she flipped it open for the dates she copied from the old newspapers. Starting at the earliest, the disappearance of a little girl in 1999, from an area only miles from where they now lived, she decided she would only research for an hour and settled down to work.

The face of seven-year-old Rachael Ryan swam into view, and she read the reports that stretched on for months. There were pictures of her tearful, anxious parents, Marie and Tom, huddled together, battling against the storm of the media intrusion. Jill tried not to look at the faces, to witness the helplessness they were feeling, and concentrated on the words that described the search for the child. It was hard not to notice how the writing filtered down as the months passed and the story reduced to no more than a side column in the middle pages. Once the initial shock of the child’s disappearance wore off, and every emotion was wrung from those who loved her, the papers lost interest and moved onto other things. Turning the wheel on the side of the screen, Jill searched for news that Rachael was found, but there was nothing.

The room, in which she sat, was laid out so the two desks it held fit snugly together at an angle. The only other thing in it was a filing cabinet. Swivelling around in her chair, she moved towards the other desk and the second computer. The screech of the chair wheels as they scraped the floor made her flinch. Clicking on a search engine, she typed Rachael’s name and waited. It took numerous hits until she found what she was looking for, and the site she chose was updated a month before. Jotting down the name of the man who posted the news, she began to read.

The search for the missing child was called off after six months. The police spokesman offered no further explanation, other than to say that their resources would not allow for any further action to be taken. There were a couple of comments from those involved in the case with one man’s voice rising above the others. The detective in charge, Paul O’Farrell, she noticed had posted the site. She scrolled down in search of a face to go with the name. She found him in a photograph with Rachael’s parents. His face was etched with the same worry as theirs. Weather-beaten features stared back at her and his eyes looked kind, if not filled with distress.

It took a while to finish reading what he had written, as there were many articles on other children who had gone missing over the years, but she concentrated on Rachael. So far much of what he’d posted she learned from the newspapers, but there was the odd veiled suggestion more could have been done in the case. It was obvious he was protecting himself from the retaliation of his superiors. Sighing and stiff from sitting, Jill looked at her watch amazed to find over three hours passed. There was so much to do at home, she could no longer delay, and she reached for the mouse to close the site. Her finger slipped on the wheel and the page in front of her moved down a little. Her hand froze as she read the headline.

Marie Ryan, Rachael’s mother, committed suicide on the first anniversary of her daughter’s disappearance. Friends spoke of her heartbreak at the loss of her child and the terror she felt at not knowing what happened to her. This, along with the guilt of allowing Rachael to run to the ice cream van alone, was too much for her, and she took an overdose of pills while her husband was at work.

There was no further mention about Rachael, other than a picture of her mother’s burial, and the image of her father at the grave. It was clear he was a broken man. Clicking off the internet, Jill sat back and watched the screensaver for a moment. She tried to relax as she watched the Jurassic scene, and the dinosaurs lumbering across the landscape, but the colours hurt her eyes and she closed them.

From somewhere outside in the corridor, she heard the constant tick tock of a clock and she tried to steady her breathing in time to its beats. Why, she wondered, have I let myself get involved in this horror? It’s not as though I have much time on my hands. Her grandmother saved the papers for some reason. Jill knew her grandmother had developed some strange habits in her last years, to which the array of dried roots and herbs that cluttered the kitchen cupboards bore witness. Jill tried to recall the names of the strange things the jars held, and smiled when she realised, she had dusted each one before placing it back. Perhaps she was developing some of her grandmother’s eccentricities after all, and she vowed to throw all the jars in the rubbish skip.

Outside it started to rain and a chill wind blew the drops into the porch of the Library. Jill shivered and pulled her coat tighter. The sky was grey, the clouds swollen. She had no choice than to make a run for the car. There would be no let up for the rest of the day, and she had to put the wiper blades on high power. Turning the heater on full, she waited for the warmth to reach her feet. Blasts from the vents cleared away the condensation clouding the windows, and she guided the car out onto the road.

It was lunch time, but the school yard was deserted when she drove past; the teachers thinking it wiser to keep the children inside. Now and then an anxious, small face appeared in the steamy windows lining the corridors. There would be a lot of unspent energy. Jill smiled at the thought of the teachers who would have to rein it in.

The blue light announcing the police station shone like a beacon through the gloom. The building was a nondescript bungalow and the few cars that lined its forecourt gave the impression that very little policing was needed to keep the small village in order. Despite the warmth from the car heater, Jill shivered and slammed her foot on the brake as the traffic lights outside the station turned red. The rain eased a little, and she glanced towards the porch at a huddled figure. His collar was pulled up. There was something familiar about him, and she edged a little closer to the passenger seat to get a better look, as he made a run for his car.

With only the pavement and a low wall dividing them, he was not too far away. She felt for the window switch and let it down a little. He was about to climb into the car, when something made him look up. She wasn’t sure if it was the whiz of the window motor that attracted his attention, but for a moment their eyes locked, and she saw him frown. The blare of a car horn behind her jolted her and her foot slipped off the clutch, stalling the car. Fumbling for the ignition, she turned the key and the engine sprang to life. Her hand trembled as she reached for the gear lever, aware he was standing there, watching her drive away.

 

The Wraith – Chapter 1

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on March 27, 2020
Posted in: books, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, Gothic novel, horror, Witchcraft, Witches. Tagged: , , , , . Leave a comment

 

                                                                      CHAPTER ONE

 

The bundle of newspaper was yellow and brittle with age and the string that held it together frayed, by the urgent gnawing of rodent teeth, to a few thin strands. Jill picked the papers up, glad the barrier the rubber gloves she wore made between her skin and the mouldiness and carried it over to the table. Her spring cleaning had started in earnest two days before, and this was just one more oddity that had shown itself during her quest to let no nook undisturbed. The papers were stuffed down behind an old settle in the kitchen and fell out when she moved it. For now, they joined with the rest of the photographs and letters her grandmother had hidden during one of her eccentric moments.

The house was unoccupied for over a year and the spiders took advantage of the silence. The evidence of their work was plain, as no corner remained untouched by their webs. Shuddering, Jill aimed the feather duster at dusty, gossamer net and jumped back as the cobweb came free, in case its occupant should decide to make itself known. Running to the back door, she shook the duster and stood for a moment surveying the landscape. The fields behind the house stretched for miles in a kaleidoscope of colour. The crops, ripened by the summer sun, were now ready for harvesting. Having little experience in the way of the land, she called on her nearest neighbor for advice, and an agreement was reached satisfactory to both parties. In the future, he would plant and harvest the crops for fifty per cent of the profit. This meant Jill had some income to rely on until she could find a job, and it also allowed her time to get the house in order. The woods to her right were as colorful as the fields and burned with all the colors of autumn. She breathe in the scent carried to her on the chill wind. It smelt of fresh pine and evergreen, the aroma familiar and comforting. Shivering, and aware for the first time of the cold, she shook the duster one more time before going back into the kitchen.

Looking around the room she sighed, imagining the mammoth task ahead. The house was over a hundred and fifty years old, and the rooms were built to accommodate a large, extended family. Though the big, open fire in the kitchen insured the room would always be warm, she dreaded to think what the bedrooms would be like in winter. The old fireplaces that sat unused in each one was choked with soot, and she had seen the crows’ nests on top of all the chimney pots. As there were no funds available to allow for the installation of a heating system, she had no other choice then to have someone sweep the chimneys and check that the ventilation vents allowed for the lighting of fires.

The bubbling of the kettle roused her from her musings, and she dropped a tea bag into the waiting mug and filled it with boiling water. The sandwich she prepared earlier looked tasteless and unappetising, so she pushed it aside. As she sipped her drink, her fingers moved over the assortment of things she had found. Many of the letters were written in her hand and she smiled at some of the childish gossip she had relayed over the years. Some were from her aunts and uncles. There were even some from her mother, and she became lost in the memory of the past. The later letters, the ones sent in the year before her grandmother’s death, were colder and more demanding than the others. There were threats, thinly veiled as advice, that she should sell the house now that her health was failing and move into a nursing home. Though nothing was directly implied, the words thundered off the pages, as each new letter became an exact copy of their siblings. Jill felt her throat grow tight as the words echoed up from the neatly written notes. Her heart ached when she imagined her grandmother’s reaction to the commands. Sell up, check into a home and stop being a bother to us. The meaning was clear.

Tearing the remaining letters to shreds and refusing to let her anger and sadness overwhelm her, she thumbed through old photographs. Some were quite ancient, the film grainy and yellow. The names, written in the familiar shaky hand of her grandmother, were of friends and relations long dead. There was one of Jill and her grandmother, taken in the orchard at a time when the trees hung heavy with fruit. I could not have been more than six-years-old, Jill thought, just a little younger than Toby. Her eyes misted over as she gazed down at the figure beside her, taking in the strong hand resting on her shoulder and the bright eyes sparkling with vitality even in their seventieth year. While Toby would never know his great grandmother, Jill would see to it that her memory lived on. He would always be aware of the great kindness she had done in willing them the house. No matter what happened in the future, she had ensured by her actions they would always have somewhere to call home.

Wiping the tears from her face, Jill walked to the old dresser and placed the photograph against one of the plates. It would remain there as a constant reminder of her loved one, and its presence would be comforting, as she adjusted to her new life. Now, back to the matter in hand, and she sighed, as she looked around the huge kitchen. Her grandmother was loath to throw anything away, believing everything would one day come in handy, so there was a mountain of old, rusty pots and enamel bowls to contend with. It took most of the day to clean out the old presses that lined the walls, and by the time she was done, a small hill of clutter had formed at the side of the house. With eight more rooms to go, Jill knew she would have to hire a rubbish skip. This would be yet another drain on her dwindling budget, but she could not allow the rubbish to remain where it was, especially not the rusted and sharp metal items dangerous to a child’s probing fingers.

The telephone had been installed, and she leafed through the phone book in search of a waste disposal firm. The voice on the other end of the line informed her that the skip would be delivered in two days. That gave her enough time, if she worked non-stop, to clear out the rest of the rooms and have the house in better order before the wintry weather.

Unlike the city, where the roads rarely filled up with snow and the thousands of streetlamps kept even the frost at bay, the country was a completely different matter. Memories of past Christmases’ spent with her grandmother reminded her of how harsh the weather could get, and she was glad of the large log pile in the lean-to behind the house. Despite spending most of her childhood summers with her grandmother, she still had a lot to learn, and there was not much time left before winter set in. The animals roaming the land had made provisions for the cold, but she did not have the harvesting instinct of the squirrel or field mouse. The small orchard screamed for attention on the few occasions she walked there with her son, and the vegetable patch was overgrown. The leaves from the rhubarb were now the size of small bushes, and she knew she could not allow the crop to rot in the ground. Once the house was in order, she decided, she’d start to work on the land.

 

The buzzing of the alarm on her mobile phone meant it was time to leave. The school was a twenty-minute drive away and, she had not met any of the women from the neighbouring farms to carpool with. She tried not to think how she would manage for childcare, if she did get a job. Biting her lip, she tried to concentrate on driving, and avoid the many potholes on the lane that led to the road. Christ, she swore, as a wheel descended with a resounding thud, and she prayed that the tire remained unscathed by its encounter with the rough ground. Only when she was out on the main road did she relax a little. She sat back in her seat glad there was so little traffic to contend with, one of the bonuses of living in the country, along with the silence and the clean air.

Though a city girl at heart, the country offered her protection and its surroundings were the balm her tired senses needed. Don’t, she warned, try to think of something else; the house and the amount of work that needed doing. But still it remained the constant, reoccurring ache that refused to be ignored, and the memory of Joe’s desertion. The news that he was leaving them was the proverbial bolt from the blue, and the shock of seeing him go, remained. The anxious months that followed, and the times she had to placate her frightened son and assure him of his father’s love were the most traumatic of her life. It was bad enough to have a broken heart to contend with, but she was an adult. While sorrow was a part of growing up, the damaged emotions of a young boy was something she never imagined having to cope with.

 

In the past, when they were a family, she pictured Toby’s life and managed to endure letting him go, first to playschool and then primary. Though many a secret tear was shed, nothing prepared her for the child’s anguish at being abandoned by his father, his hero. Though never a boisterous boy, he had grown quieter over the past months, and the move from the city was hard on him. Not only was he leaving behind his friends and the familiar streets, he no longer had the hope he once did of seeing his father return. For weeks after Joe left, he’d spend his free time with his nose pressed against the apartment window, searching the crowds thronging the pavements outside. Jill never asked what he was doing. She knew, as she watched his eyes scan the streets, that he was looking for that one, special face. No pills or antacids would still the burning inside her, and she no longer bothered the doctors with her complaints, as her own diagnosis was correct. Her heart was broken.

 

Cars lined both sides of the road outside the school and she moved along the lines, hoping for a parking space. There was none and she was forced to park on a grass verge quite a way from the school. The bell was ringing as she picked her way along the mound and most of the children were reunited with their mothers when she reached the gate. Some of the women smiled and nodded when they passed her, and she was glad of the greeting and the feeling she was being recognized. Those children not with their mothers, were standing in groups exchanging childish gossip, as they waited to be collected. Only Toby stood alone. Her heart ached as she took in his disheveled appearance. The white shirt she tucked in his pants now hung over his belt, and his gelled hair stood at all angles. This was his own doing, as, like his father, he had a habit of running his fingers through it when he was concentrating or worried. He looked pale beside the other children, whose cheeks still retained traces of the summer’s sun, and she saw he was cold, as his lips had lost their colour.

There was no rush to greet her, when her saw her, and he allowed her to take the coat draped over his school bag.

“You should put this on,” Jill smiled, and helped him put his arms through.

Kneeling in front of him, she did up the buttons and looked in his sad, grey eyes.

“I love you, you know,” she whispered.

“Yeah, I know,” he sighed, and this told her all that she needed to know.

Her love was not enough. He needed his father.

His hand in hers felt small, as they walked back to the car. She thought of the lunch box and the food that would be untouched. She had become used to throwing away sandwiches and fruit she packed for him each morning. Just the juice carton would be empty.

They never spoke as they drove back to the house. She didn’t try to make conversation, as her questions would only annoy him, and made a mental note to speak to his teacher. It was impossible to know what was going on in his mind, and she reached across and squeezed his hand. The smile he gave her didn’t reach his eyes, and he pulled his hand away. The bumpy drive down the lane to the house never touched him, even when they were jostled from side to side. Jill looked at her son from the corner of her eye, hoping for a reaction, but there was none.

“I’ll do my homework in my room,” he said, as he climbed from the car.

“Wouldn’t you like something to eat first?” She called after him.

“Naw, not hungry,” he shrugged, before climbing the stairs.

Jill watched his retreating back. He was thinner, and even a little stooped under the weight of his terrible grief. Tormented by worry, she retreated to the kitchen. The light had faded, and the room was deep in shadow. The lone bulb in the ceiling did little to dispel the gloom, and she knelt beside the fire and struck a match. The dry sticks and bunches of old newspaper were soon blazing away, and she stayed warming her hands on the red flames. Her legs ached when she stood. She sat at the table and pulled the remaining bundle of newspapers towards her. No longer caring about their condition, she pulled on the binding string. It gave way with a small snap, and she unfurled the tattered bundle. She was about the scrunch it into a ball for the fire when the photo on the cover caught her attention. The bright, smiling face of a little girl, about the same age of her son, stared back at her and the headline proclaiming the child was missing made Jill’s blood run cold.

The Wraith, prologue

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on March 26, 2020
Posted in: books, Eerie Places, fiction, Ghost, gloom, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, horror, Paranormal, revenge, scary, twlight, writers, writing. 1 Comment

 

 

                                                                   The Past

Rachael was seven years old and about to die at the hands of her abductors, but that was okay. She didn’t want to live any more, not now, not after all the bad stuff. The bed, on which she lay, stank of sweat, blood and other things, so there was no relief from the stench, when she buried her head in the sodden pillow. She lay on her side, her eyes darting up at the dark shadows passing between the uneven floorboards above her head. Footsteps dislodged dust trapped within the wood, and she coughed as particles fell on her face. They didn’t care if she heard their plans, and instinct told her life meant nothing to them, the bad men. One of them laughed and the sound was terrible. She touched a wound in her arm. The tips of small fingers fitted in to the indents of the teeth marks. Her body roared with pain when she tried to turn over, and she closed her eyes, wishing they would come and get it over with. Three nights had passed, she measured time by the light that came and then faded through small fissures in the cellar walls. It was no use wishing, her mother wasn’t going to come and save her now, she bit down on dry, blood-encrusted lips.

The trap door above her head opened and she watched with fear-filled eyes as one of the bad men climbed down the ladder. He didn’t look at her but placed a small plastic box on the bed and sat down. Flicking the lid open, he withdrew a syringe and began to fill it from a small vial. Rachael dreaded visiting the doctor and the underlying threat of having a vaccination, but the sight no longer held any terror for her.

“It’s no use struggling,” he looked down at her. “You’ll only make it harder on yourself.”

“I’m not going to struggle.”

Her words chilled him, but he brushed aside his discomfort with a sneer.

“That’s just as well,” he grabbed her arm. “I don’t want to have to hit you again.”

“My mother is going to make you pay,” she hissed as the needle pierced her skin.

“You’re such a silly, little thing,” he laughed, as he pushed the plunger, emptying its contents into her battered flesh.

He couldn’t know that in the seconds before the drug took hold, how Rachael’s mind screamed out for her mother. It wouldn’t have matter had he known, he felt nothing for the small, wasted form on the bed. He pulled the stinking pillow from beneath her head and placed it over her face, just to make sure. The others were in the garden, the crunch of the shovels slicing through the dry earth echoed from above his head.

“Time to go,” he hauled the small body from the bed and draped it over his shoulder.

Her weight didn’t register, as he climbed the ladder and carried her through the cabin, and out into the back garden.

“Drop her in,” the command came from the man nearest him, and he did as he was told.

The small thud her body made as it hit the soil, sounded amplified in the still surroundings and he walked away. This was the part he found distasteful, the blood-sweet smell of the earth and the sound it made, as they scattered it over the body.

Back in the cellar, he began to tidy up. There wasn’t much time, the few remaining items of clothing would need to be buried with the body. Lacing his fingers through the straps of her sandals, he looked down at the shiny leather and smiled.

Her mother was going to make them pay. He laughed and shook his head. The possibility of being found out was ludicrous. They were too clever, too organised. Everything had a set pattern and they never deviated from their plans. No, they had done it all before, and would do it again. The idea made him lick his lips in anticipation.

All Hallows – Chapter 11

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on December 15, 2017
Posted in: Ghost. 1 Comment

The tightly wound bandages around her ribs meant Lorraine was panting when she reached the school. Leaning her shopping bags against the wall she foraged inside for the sandwiches and fruit juice she’d bought for the children. David was first to appear and he came running up to her with arms outstretched. She bent down and the hug he gave her hurt, but she kissed him and smiled away the pain. The girls came together and Chelsea thanked her for the food then ran off to join her friends.

“Are you ok?” She asked her eldest daughter.

“Yeah,” she looked up at her mother and nodded. “I wish you wouldn’t come here like that.”

“I’ve been to the doctor,” Lorraine explained, “he put the plaster there to hold the cut together,” she brought a hand up to touch her lip.

“Yeah, I know, but I don’t want my friends to see you.”

“I’m sorry,” Lorraine handed her the sandwich and juice box.

“You’re such a loser,” Abbey grabbed the offering and ran off.

Lorraine tried not to cry as she bent to pick up the shopping bags. Her movement were robotic as the bandages made it difficult for her to move. There was still the matter of ordering the coal before catching the bus home and the road stretched out before her as she made her way to the coal yard. Past experience of dealing with her husband meant the merchant wouldn’t deliver without payment up front, and she wanted to be rid of what little money she had before Tom got his hands on it.

It was disappointing to learn the man couldn’t deliver until the following day as he’d no truck going in her direction. This meant another night without heat. Tom wouldn’t be home until late so there was no need for excuses about the food she’d managed to buy. He’d find someone to buy him a drink if he’d to beg or borrow, so whatever she left for his dinner wouldn’t be questioned, unless his mood hadn’t improved. The climb up the three steps into the bus was painful and she was forced to lay her bags on the top step before following on.

“Here, love, let me help you,” the driver got out from behind the wheel and took the bags.

“Thank you,” she sat down on the seat where he’d placed her shopping.

“You’ve got a bit of a load there,” he smiled down at her and then his eyes grew serious when he saw the split lip.

As she watched him walk away Lorraine thought her daughter was right. She was a loser.

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                             

                                            

 

 

                                            

                            

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

All Hallows – Chapter 10

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on December 9, 2017
Posted in: books, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Halloween, Paranormal, passion, scary, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

 

 

The blast of warm air was welcoming on Lorraine’s chilled skin. She felt her body relax as she queued to give her details at the reception desk. It was flu season and the doctor’s surgery was filled to capacity. Her shopping was heavy and she looked around hoping a seat would be available once she’d checked in. She’d stopped off at the supermarket first, in case there was a long wait at the surgery and she was right. By the looks of things it’d be lunch time before she was out and for the first time she was glad. It meant not waiting around in the biting cold and the ready made sandwiches she’d purchased meant her children would’ve something to fill them.

. One bar glowed on the gas heater at the top of the room, but with the overcrowded conditions it was enough to ensure those who waited grew uncomfortable. It also increased the stench of the body odors and she tried not to breathe too deeply, especially when the man beside her started to cough as through his lungs would soon follow the whooping from his chest. All around her patients sniffed and sneezed and she fumbled in her coat pocket for a tissue and brought it to her face. If anyone noticed her actions they’d imagine she was patting her nose and not trying to ward off the swarming germs. The last thing she needed was the flu on top of everything else. Her ribs ached from the beating and the cut on her lip stung. Holding her purse tight against her body, she closed her eyes and tried to relax. The hum of conversation soothe her and her lids became heavy.

 

The crowd thinned out and the constant blast of cold air from the opening of the door gave some respite from the heat. It was noon and she’d been sitting there for over an hour and a half. If the doctor gave ten minutes to each of the remaining patients, she’d be out about quarter to one. This gave her plenty of time to walk to the school before the lunch break and while she didn’t relish the idea of Abbey’s accusing stares, it gave her comfort her children wouldn’t go without food. The piles of dog eared magazines meant to help pass the time looked dirty and uninviting so she settled back and closed her eyes.

She nodded off, because the next thing she felt was a hand on her arm.

“Is that you?” A man nodded towards the secretary who waited.

“Sorry,” Lorraine got up. “Did you call me?”

“Yes,” the woman scowled, before walking away.

For a moment Lorraine panicked when she realised her purse was missing. To her relief she found it under her chair. It fell while she slept and she picked it up along with her two shopping bags.

“Thank you,” she smiled at the men who woke her.

“No problem, love,” he said. “The heat makes you nod off.”

 

“Ah, my old friend,” Dr Miller smiled when he saw Lorraine then creased his brow as he looked down at the cut on her lip.

Depositing her load beside his desk, she sat and fumbled with the buttons on her coat.

“There’s no need to ask what the matter is,” he tilted her face towards him.

She didn’t answer and allowed him to examine her lip.

“Any more surprises for me? He asked.

“My ribs,” Lorraine mumbled.

“Pop up on the couch.”

Slipping off her coat and shoes she did as he asked.

“When did this happen? He felt along her stomach for any sign of damage.

“Last night, ouch,” she groaned, as his fingers traced a path along her ribs.

“Sorry,” he finished his exploring. “You can sit up.”

She was glad of the hand helping her up. The snap of latex gloves hung in the air as she made her way back to her seat.

“I’ll tape it up for you,” he nodded at her lip.

“Thanks,” she tried not to wince as he pulled the cut together and placed small strips across it.

“What am I going to do with you? He looked down into her eyes and she saw concern reflected in his.

“Please don’t be kind to me,” she was afraid she’d cry.

“How much more can you take?” He asked. “I can bandage your ribs, but one day he’ll do some lasting damage.”

“I know,” she whispered.

“Look, Lorraine,” he ran his hand through his hair exasperated. “There’s no point in us going over the same old thing. You won’t leave and I’ll keep patching you up until one day…”

He left the sentence hanging, but she knew he meant one day he’d be called to view her body.

“I need a prescription for the pill,” she said.

He added this to the painkillers he was prescribing. The next few minutes were spent wrapping her aching ribs in bandages. They made small talk about the cold and the dark nights. Lorraine dug her nails into the palms of her hands as this kind man touched her with a gentleness she’d forgotten.

“Come back in a week and I’ll make sure you’re healing ok,” he said.

“Thanks,” Lorraine shrugged on her coat and picked up the shopping bags.

 

Inside the surgery Dr Miller peeped through the window blinds and watched her go. He had hundreds of patients, but this young woman touched him more than any. He saw terrible suffering on a daily basis and there was something almost regal in the way Lorraine Ryan dealt with her pain.

All Hallows – Chapter 9

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on December 1, 2017
Posted in: books, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Haunted Houses, honoring the dead, Paranormal, passion, scary, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

The midmorning break passed without too much incident and despite her need for the bathroom Sarah stayed at her desk and pretended to be mulling over a problem in her book. The ten minutes passed slowly as she envisioned the gossip and the revenge being planned. Somehow they blamed her for their lack of success and there’d be a heavy price to pay come lunch break. She heard the giggling and snorts of laughter as they returned and once again buried her head in her book. Not all the girls were like June and her clique, but even those too studious to be in her circle found her fascinating. It was hard not too in a time when their changing bodies and mindset made them uncomfortable within a skin that didn’t fit. June was blessed with clear skin and her confidence in her dealings with the boys from the school next door was awe inspiring.

 

The second class of the day was English and Sarah groaned when she saw the familiar folder under the teacher’s arm. Mrs Smith was her favourite teacher and embodied everything she imagined as the ideal of womanhood. Married with three young children, she managed to look groomed and relaxed despite her busy lifestyle. She was kind to Sarah and it wasn’t out of pity. She saw something special in the girl and encouraged her by lending her books she thought she’d enjoy. None of the other teachers were aware of Sarah’s home life, but the neglect was obvious in the way she dressed and the tattered appearance of the second-hand books she arrived with at the start of each year. Some were in such a state the pages were held in with tape and it was wondered aloud in the teachers’ lounge if she found them in the rubbish skips behind the school. Some of the students dumped their unwanted books there and careful watching gave them their answer. At the end of each term Sarah stayed behind after school and waited until she was sure no one was about before foraging. They now bought second-hand books on their chosen subject and placed them where they knew she couldn’t fail to find them. There wasn’t one within the teaching staff who didn’t like Sarah and while they did everything they could to make her time in the school happy, there were those who admitted they sometimes were made to feel uneasy by the girl with the sad, haunted look.

“Another success,” Mrs Smith smiled, as she handed her the test results.

Sarah mumbled her thanks and slipped the paper between the pages of her book. Then the sniffing started. Not too obvious at first, but increasing as more and more of the girls joined in. Soon Mrs Smith became aware of it and looked around the room.

“Have you all got colds?” She asked.

“No, Miss,” June answered. “It’s the smell.”

The teacher sniffed the air and appeared puzzled when she couldn’t detect any unfamiliar odour.

“I can’t smell anything,” she said.

“Yes, Miss, it’s like cat pee,” June said. “It’s really bad from back here.”

Mrs Smith walked between the rows of desks sniffing the air.

“Can you get it now, Miss?” June asked.

Sarah felt her cheeks flame as she waited for the answer.

“I’m not sure,” Mrs Smith said. “There’s definitely something unpleasant, but it’s not enough to have you all sniffing like that. Let’s get on with the lesson.”

There were more muted giggles and someone tugged at Sarah’s hair when the teacher’s back was turned. The words on the page blurred as she tried to concentrate and the shame she felt at her favourite teacher’s comment stung. The bullying was done indirectly and none of the teachers were aware of it. She didn’t dare complain as then she’d be known as a snitch as well as the other titles they’d given her.

When the bell sounded for the lunch break she was glad to be free of her prison and hurried to answer to cries of her painful bladder.

Inside the stall, she sat on the toilet and waited for the others to appear. They made the toilets their first port of call as they vied with one another for the mirrors above the sinks. The powdering of nose and slicking of lip gloss was a prelude to meeting the boys from the other school, but today there was no sign of them. The food in the canteen was never an option as they existed on a diet of apples and mineral water. Sarah opened the door and peeped out. Other than the odd straggler washing their hands, there was no sign of her tormentors. The cold water felt good on her skin and she took her time drying her hands on the white roller towel. They were allowed an hour for lunch and what seemed like no time at all to most, was an eternity for Sarah as each minute was filled with unspoken threat.

The corridor was deserted as she made her way back to the classroom and there was none of the teaching staff to question why she wasn’t going outside. The sandwich she’d so carefully packed was squashed and flattened by her books and she fished it out of her satchel not intending to eat it. Picking a piece of dough from the centre of the bread, she put it into her mouth. It felt dry and stuck in her throat when she tried to swallow it. It took some time before it went down into her empty stomach and she didn’t dare risk eating any more. She couldn’t afford bottled water and the water in the drinking fountain tasted of chemicals. At home the water was pumped in from a local well and always tasted cool and refreshing.

“Are you Sarah?” She jumped, when the voice sounded.

A little boy about her brother’s age stood panting in the doorway.

“Yes, why?” She asked.

“Your brother fell over by the skips and he’s cut his knees bad.”

She was out of her seat and running along the corridor leading to the yard. The skips were used by both schools and provided an invisible border. Sometimes there was broken glass and old tins dumped by the catering staff and visions of lockjaw and tetanus shots swam before her as she ran. During lunch break there were no teachers about despite the staffs assurance to parents there was always an adult presence in the yard. So no one saw her running to the end of the school and disappearing around the side. Her lungs ached from the cold air and she was panting when the skips came into sight. There was no sign of her brother, but the towering yellow bulk of the skips could hide him and she moved between them calling his name. There was shuffling from behind one of them as she drew closer and she hadn’t time to react as a hand reached out, grabbed her hair and dragged her behind the skip.

“I want a word with you, bitch” June wrapped her fingers in Sarah waist-length hair and bounced her against the wall.

The shock of her forehead hitting the cold bricks winded her.

“Let me go,” she tried to wrestle free and this made June pull harder on her hair and the pain as some was uprooted made her cry.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” June’s face was so close she could smell the perfume of her lip gloss.

She concentrated on its sparkly redness as she tried to find the words to answer, but no matter what she said she was in trouble.

“Just leave me alone, will you?” Was all she managed to say.

“I’ll leave you alone all right,” June smirked. “When you’re dead.”

This was considered the height of wit by the four other girls surrounding her and they joined in the laughter.

“I’ve done nothing to you,” Sarah winced as the fingers tore at her hair and her forehead stung from the small cuts left by the bricks.

“Fuckin teacher’s pet. Always showing us up and thinking you’re better than the rest of us, but you’re not.”

“Let me go,” Sarah reached up and grabbed the hand holding her hair.

Her efforts were rewarded with a punch in the stomach from one of the girls.

“Stop,” she sobbed, but the blows came thick and fast. One or two got her in the side of the head and the pain roared.

Tired of the game, June released her hold on the hair and Sarah huddled down beside the skip and tried to ward off the blows from the others.

“That’ll teach you to be so stuck up,” she heard June voice from somewhere above her. “Everyone here hates you. You stink up the classroom with your dirty clothes. If I were you I’d kill myself, I really would.”

There was a chorus of “yeah” from the other girls and some delivered a parting kick before walking away. The last thing she heard was June’s snort of disgust as she said.

“I have to wash my hands before meeting the boys. There’s no telling what sort of germs that bitch has, she probably has nits.”

Sarah stayed huddled between the skips until their laughter faded and she was able to stop crying.

 

There was no way she could go back to class as the teachers would ask too many questions. Although her ordeal seemed to go on forever, only ten minutes passed since she’d left the classroom. She had to retrieve her satchel, but first she’d have to go back to the bathroom. There were some pitying glances from the girls loitering outside the school, but she saw none of them as she kept her head down.

The mirror showed the full extent of her injuries and she bundled toilet paper into a ball and wiped the blood from her forehead. Small holes dotted her skin when the rough cement penetrated and a dark mark was already evident on one side of her face. Her stomach felt bruised and the pain made it difficult for her to breathe. With no brush or comb to ease out the knots in her hair, she raked her fingers through it as gently as she could. She felt at the sore spots where the hair was torn and to her dismay her fingers came away stained with blood. Dabbing her eyes, trying to reduce the puffiness made by her tears, she cleared her throat to dislodge the sobs caught there.

She was shaking from shock as she made her way back to the classroom. The abandoned sandwich mocked her as she loaded her books back in the satchel so she picked it up and dropped it in the bin at the front of the room. School didn’t let out until four-o-clock and she had to wait for Brian or she’d get in trouble with her mother. There was no one about to watch her as she slipped out through the main gates. With no money she couldn’t take refuge in some café to pass the time so instead walked to the park. With over three and a half hours to go, she sat on the frost covered bench and huddled deeper into the neck of her threadbare coat. The pain within her battered body roared again and she wondered how much more of this she could take.

 

 

 

All Hallows – Chapter 8

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on November 24, 2017
Posted in: books, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, gloom, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, honoring the dead, horror, Paranormal, passion, scary, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , . Leave a comment

 

 

                                                 

 

Sarah knew she was delaying the inevitable as she dragged her feet along the pavement. The school gates loomed in the distance and she felt the familiar knot forming in the pit of her stomach. Brian ran on ahead and was swallowed up in the crowd as he joined his friends waiting in the schoolyard. Sarah didn’t have anyone to wait for her. In the three years since she’d entered secondary school she’d never managed to find one true friend. The reason was plain. She was the target for the bullies and anyone foolish enough to befriend her would find themselves in the same position. Image is all important when your fifteen and fitting in the most essential of requirements. The standard school uniform proved a great equaliser, but the simple trapping allowed as adornments singled out who the in girls were. Sarah didn’t have any jewellery and would never have the money for the gold initial chains they wore. Fashion decreed you wore your name around your neck and though Sarah wore her shirt buttoned up to her chin, they knew she was the odd one out. While she hadn’t put on any weight since her mother bought the uniform, she’d sprouted a good two inches. Twice she’d been forced to let down the hem on the skirt and despite careful pressing the faded white line of each seam was visible on the material. Unlike the other girls privileged enough to have new uniforms at the beginning of each year, Sarah’s would have to do her until it fell to pieces.

 

Today she felt worse than normal. She wasn’t sure if it was her meeting with Mrs Ryan that plunged her deeper into depression or the prospect of entering the classroom. Life was so unfair. Mrs Ryan didn’t deserve the beating she got at the hands of the man who was supposed to love her. Neither did she deserve the way her mother treated her. Not once had her mother been kind to her. Her very presence annoyed the woman and she always looked at her as though she hated her. She wasn’t like this with Brian and would hug and kiss him despite his protests. If she said something kind or smiled as though she meant it, it would’ve lightened her daughter’s load. There was little chance of this happening and Sarah was resigned to the fact she was an outcast.

The shrilling ringing of the school bell as she walked down the corridor to her classroom jarred at her frayed nerves. A cloud of expensive perfume met her when she entered the room and she tried to avoid the glares from the eyes watching her progress. Slipping into her seat, she took the necessary book from her satchel and made a great show of putting it in place, but there was no escaping what was coming. It was the same everyday and the bullies never tired of their tormenting.

“Is it me?” June Richmond asked. “Or can anyone smell cat piss?”

Sarah felt her cheeks flame at the giggles from the other girls and tears pricked the corner of her eyes. Usually she managed to control such feeling, but today was different and she dug her nails into the palms of her hands. For three years she’d endured this bullying and now felt she could no longer take it. It was pointless to retaliate as she’d no ammunition with which to fight. What they said was true. She did smell from the cats. It was impossible to escape their stench despite her best efforts and her clothes were old and scruffy. What defence did she have to offer?

June was the ringleader and the worst of the bullies. Her parents were both doctors and their joint income meant she’d all the latest in fashion and jewellery. Sarah envied the layers of makeup she wore each day and would love to own a lipstick or anything to brighten the pallor of her skin. She knew June needed the cosmetic help more than she did, but this did nothing to ease her envy.

“Quieten down, ladies,” Mr Stewart, their maths teacher swept into the room and gave the girls something else to concentrate on.

They had a crush on him and the giggles and whispers were transferred from Sarah.

“The results of the pres are in,” he announced.

These were set out as tests before the more important end of term exams. While the outcome wasn’t important, it gave some idea how the pupil would perform. Sarah was a straight A student as her only normality was in the classroom and were it not for the bullying she would’ve enjoyed school. As she watched the teacher open the folder to reveal the results her stomach went into spasm and she thought she’d be sick. The last thing she needed was any more attention drawn to her and she knew what lay within the pages on the desk. He read out the usual list of slackers and D minuses. June was among those singled out for a telling off and this didn’t improve her mood. Especially when he praised Sarah for her hard work and remarked the others would do well to imitate her example and study before the real exams. Each word meant to praise her was another nail in her coffin as it enraged those seated around her.

The class seemed endless and Sarah’s hand shook as she copied from the blackboard. There were no smart comments or flirty suggestions from the other girls and this was a rare. Mr Stewart was the target for their teasing and at times left the class looking red-faced. She knew the silence meant she was in for it.