The Wraith-chapter twenty-one

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on April 24, 2020
Posted in: 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, insomnia, memories, monsters, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, twlight, Witchcraft, Witches, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

          The attic always seemed a place of endless night. Lighting the lamp, Jill moved along the pathway she made the day before. Nothing to bar her way, as all the various bits of furniture and curios were moved back. She knelt and placed the lamp beside her on the floor. To her disgust, she found the keys were still sticky with Joe’s blood. After wiping them on the leg of her jeans, she tried each one in the lock. The catch gave way, and she sat back on her heels, her heart beating faster as she envisioned the things she would find inside. Reaching tentatively out, she rested her fingers against the wood for a moment before lifting the lid. The smell emanating from inside was overpowering, and she drew back a little. Bess yawned; the scent had roused her from her sleep. The sound broke the silence of the room and caused Jill’s heart to leap.

   “God, that’s bad,” she wafted her hand to disperse the small cloud of dust rising from the trunk’s innards.

          It was the odour of musk and decay. Once the initial blast of trapped air passed, it diluted to a more acceptable smell one of herbs, old cloth and the dry, familiar scent of books.

Jill leaned in and started to remove the contents. There were numerous jars, labelled with the names of plants and roots she never heard of before. Some were reduced to dust in their long wait, and she held them up against the lamp for a better view. Others were darker and forbidding, and she shook their containers to make sure they were what they seemed, long dead things. It took her quite a while to empty all the jars from the trunk, and it was only when she had done this that she was able to see what else it held. A dry stick made of wood and wrapped with a sort of ivy leaf. Jill brought it to her nose and sniffed. It smelled of the forest, and the brittle berries still clinging to the vine told her it was, in fact, mistletoe.

   Laying it to one side, she reached in and tried to withdraw a large, cloth-wrapped bundle. It was heavy and she was forced to stand to lift it out. It landed on the floor with a resounding thud, and as she started to open the folds of the material, Bess got up to see what she was doing. The books, that had up to now been hinted at appeared. Bess sniffed and pushed her nose so close against them Jill had to push her away, afraid she would damage them. Though there was nothing about the faded covers to give any indication as to what the brown-edged pages held Jill imagined she felt their energy flow through her fingers every time she touched them.

   She smiled, when she opened the cover of the top copy, and saw her grandmother’s familiar scrawl. It was a diary of sorts, but not one that held old family recipes or told stories about the day to day running of the farm. Instead it listed cures and charms. How the roots and herbs in the jars must be used for healing. Some small sheets of paper, whiter than the pages, were stuck in the centre of the book, and Jill pulled them from their hiding place. It was a letter addressed to her, and from the date on the top, she saw it was been written three years before her grandmother died. Her knees ached from kneeling on the hard-wooden floorboards, so she eased her way down, and pulled the lamp closer in order to read.

   My dearest granddaughter

I know the time I foretold has now come to pass and I weep for your sorrow. Though I have no idea what it is that blights your life, I pray the answer lies within the pages of the books set out before you.

Jill looked at the stack on the floor and wondered how her grandmother knew so much. She felt her presence in the air all around her, urging her on.

Ours is the knowledge of centuries past, and though you do not know it yet, you were chosen to carry on my work. I wonder if your mother has told you about your ancestor, Isabelle. If not, let me give you a brief outline. She was just sixteen when they burned her as a witch. You will see from her records that she, like you, was born with the power, but her beauty was her downfall. It was easy in those far off days to accuse a woman of being a witch, of casting an enchantment spell on a man. A woman in the village pointed the finger at her, saying she had bewitched her husband, and the innocent child was murdered because of this. The same family still resides in the village today. There is no need to give you their name; instinct will warn you of them.

   She could hear her grandmother’s sigh of resignation, as she read the next line.

Nothing much has changed throughout the centuries, and women are still not kind to their own sex.

   Do not be afraid to use any of the spells that lie within the covers of the books. There is nothing in there that can harm you, or another living soul. We do not consort with those who practise the dark arts, but should your need be great then your ally is among the dead. A soul that does not rest cannot be disturbed. The gift you possess can be a dreadful one, and the art of the Necromancer is rarely used, except in the direst of circumstances. Calling on the dead takes courage, but if you need their help, do not hesitate. I know, my dearest child you would not do so unless all was lost, and though I would like to tell you that it does not have a price, I cannot vouch that it will not leave some dark stain on your soul.

   There are maps, charts and other instruments in the cupboard beside the trunk. Never stray from the instructions, and protect yourself with the cloak, and other symbols of light, you will find as your search for knowledge continues. Know this child, those of us who have gone before are watching over you and will guide your steps. Never fear and never falter once you have chosen your path, and remember I am with you always.

Love, until the end of time

Your grandmother

Bethany

          Jill was crying when she finished reading. The loss of her grandmother hurt more than ever and added to her pain. Wiping her eyes with the back of her hands, she pushed the letter back inside the book and began to read. Hours flew by with nothing to disturb her. She drank in each word of the diary, and then moved on to the next book. This one was over two hundred years old, the date proclaimed, and it harder to understand, as the words were sometimes spelled differently. There were some things written within the pages that made her shiver. The writer recalled dark days, when ignorance and superstition ruled, and those with the power to heal were spat upon. Here too she found the spells of her ancestors and was careful to replace the pages in the right order as some had come loose from their bindings.

   “Hello.”

She dropped the book she was holding. Bess jumped at the sound and looked towards the attic door. The voice came again.

   “Hello, is anyone home? Jill are you there?”

Christ! Jill stood and picked up the lamp. This was one of the worst things about the country. People tended to walk in when their knocking went unanswered. If that happened in the city, they would be arrested.

   “I’m just coming down,” Jill called. “Wait there.”

She extinguished the lamp, and beckoned Bess to follow her down. When she got to the top of the stairs, she saw it was Tom, Rachael’s father who called her.

   “Sorry,” he pointed to the front door. “It was open.”

   “That’s okay.” she walked down to him. “I was in the attic. That’s why I didn’t hear you. Any news from the search?”

   “No, nothing, I’m sorry,” he shook his head. “But I thought I’d come out and see how you were.”

   “That’s very kind of you,” she led him into the kitchen. “Would you like a coffee?”

   “Thanks,” he sat down at the table, and watched as she threw sods of turf into the remnants of the fire.

   “It shouldn’t take long,” she assured him.

She sat opposite him as she waited for the kettle to boil. At first, he seemed lost for words, and the silence between them was uncomfortable. Finally, he spoke.

   “Do you mind if I run something by you?”

   “No,” she was glad of anything that would ease the tension.

   “I have a theory. It’s nothing positive, but I think that it’s someone close to the children who has been taking them.”

   “Like a teacher, or….? Jill left the words hanging.

   “Yes, that’s what I mean. Someone who has access to them. It could be someone in the shop where they buy their sweets, anyone.”

   “Toby doesn’t know anyone around here, and he never goes to the shops on his own.”

   “I don’t know what to think,” Tom laced his fingers together to stop them shaking. “But I have a gut feeling it’s someone close to home.”

   “Did Rachael go to the same school as Toby?”

   “No,” he had to agree that this trail seemed unlikely. “But they do bring the schools together, for sports days and the like.”

   “Still, it’s farfetched,” she got up and walked over to the fire.

The dry turf started to blaze as soon as it had hit the embers and the water was now bubbling and spitting. Swinging the arm out from the fire, she wrapped a cloth around the handle of the pot and carried it back to the table. After filling the waiting mugs with boiling water, she placed the kettle back on the hearth.

He sipped his coffee and played with the small granules of sugar that had fallen on the wood.

   “Listen,” he cleared his throat,” I’m sorry, if I’ve upset you with my stupid theories.”

   “No, you haven’t,” she assured him. “What you said has a ring of truth to it, and it can be no crazier than what I’m planning to do.”

She was saved from having to explain by Bess scratching on the door, begging to be let out. It was dark outside, the yard lit only by the ghostly white light of the full moon. When Jill came back into the kitchen, she looked at the clock on the dresser, and was surprised to see it was gone eight.

   “You were saying?” Tom asked.

   “Oh, it’s nothing, really,” she blushed a little at the thoughts of having to explain about her grandmother’s books.

   “No, go on,” he urged. “Anything is worth a try.”

   “You’ll think I’m mad,” she warned, before telling about what she had found in the attic.

When she finished speaking, she held up her hand.

   “I know, I know, it’s crazy; you don’t have to tell me.”

He said nothing for a moment, and it was impossible to read his face.

   “May I see them?”

   “What,” she was amazed. “The books?”

   “Yes, I’d like to, if you don’t mind?”

   “I don’t want to bring them down here. They’re very old, and the air in the attic is dry and suitable for storage.”

   “Could I go up there?”

   She thought for a moment, and then shrugged. What harm could it do?

   “There’s no electricity,” she warned him, as they climbed the stairs. “I have an old lamp, but the oil is running low, and I can’t find any in the house.”

   “Bourke’s, in the village stocks that sort of thing. I’ll get you some in the morning.”

He waited as she lit the lamp and followed her along the walkway to the back of the attic.

   “It’s easier if you sit,” Jill helped him push aside an old mirror so he could join her on the floor.

   “Wow.” He picked up the oldest of the books. “This is something else.”

   “I know,” Jill listed the things each of the books contained. “I haven’t got to that one yet,” she nodded at the book in his hand.

He started to read, and she went back to studying where she’d left off.  Like Jill, Tom became absorbed in the book, and did not feel the time passing. It wasn’t until his fingers grew stiff that he stopped reading.

   “It’s freezing up here,” he said.

   “I know,” she blew on her fingers, trying to breathe life back into them.

He looked at his watch.

   “It’s after midnight,” he said, surprised the time had passed so quickly. “I better make a move.”

Jill picked up the lantern and led the way out. After sleeping late, she wasn’t tired, and planned to return to her studying once Tom left. She saw, as she passed the small attic window, the sky heavy with stars, an obvious sign of frost. As they walked down the stairs, she silently whispered a prayer for her son. She knew nothing would be gained from her weeping, and there was still a lot to learn from the books.

   She shivered at the icy blast from the front door. Bess and her pups came bounding up when they saw them appear.

   “I’d like to come back in the morning, if I may,” Tom said. “To continue reading that book, if you have no objection?”

   “No, its fine,” she said. She tried to smile, but the movement felt alien. “Then you don’t think I’m mad?”

   “I never thought so in the first place,” he assured her. “Or maybe we’re both mad and we just don’t know it.”

   “We haven’t got long, you know” she couldn’t find the words. “It’s been over thirty-six hours.”

   “I know I’ll be back at first light,” Tom said. “I need to find your son. I don’t want you to suffer as we did, and if we find him,” he corrected himself, “when we find him, I’ll know what happened to Rachael.”

After refilling the dogs’ bowls and watching them eat, Jill locked them in the outbuilding. There was the usual protest from Bess, but she ignored this.

   The whole yard seemed to sparkle under the light of the moon. Frost glistened on the walls and turned the moss and cobwebs to something magical. After locking the front door, Jill filled a glass with water and carried it back up into the attic. It was a long time till dawn, and she knew, despite the cold, the excitement she felt when reading the books, would keep her awake. Closing her eyes, she reached out to her son and whispered.

   “Don’t be afraid, Toby, I’m coming to get you, and I’m not alone.”

The Wraith-chapter twenty

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on April 23, 2020
Posted in: 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, insomnia, letting go, monsters, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, twlight, Witchcraft, Witches, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

         The sound of the front door slamming resounded throughout the house. Jill sat at the top of the stairs with Bess by her side listening to the cars drive away. She stayed in her room until she heard the last of her relatives leave. There was no need for goodbyes after her outburst, and she did not want to see her father’s look of disappointment again. No doubt her mother would have had plenty to say on the matter, but the truth was Jill felt she could no longer control her temper. Listening to Joe whispering to his new girlfriend was the last straw, and she was still shaking, not just from temper, but because of his callousness when it came to his son. Christ, I’m such a fool, she thought, burying her face in Bess’s coat.

  She stayed like that for a while, too tired to move, but more relaxed now that the house was empty. The clock in the hall ticked away the minutes, and all around her the old house sighed and settled for the night. It was the smell from the kitchen that finally roused her, and she ran down to stairs. Slipping her feet into the slippers she had earlier discarded; she went into the kitchen and swung the arm that held the cauldron away from the fire. The potatoes had boiled dry, and all that remained was a mushy black pile. The stench was disgusting, so she carried the cauldron out to the yard, tripping over the pups in her haste. She was sweating from the weight of her load, and once the steaming pile was emptied onto the grass in the orchard, she dropped the heavy cauldron. The pups sniffed at the debris and drew back when they realised it was hot. Jill sank down onto the small bench to breathe in the frosty night air. The stars seemed brighter than ever in the frosty sky and she looked up at them wondering if somewhere her son could see them too.

   “Please,” she whispered to the heavens. “Don’t let them hurt my child.”

She was crying again, big racking sobs that shook her body, until she was forced to bend in two to stop the pain.

   “Jill,” the voice startled her. “Are you, all right?”

Paul put his arm around her waist and helped her stand.

   “You’ll get your death out here,” he said, and started to lead her towards the house, and she didn’t struggle, too weak to offer any resistance.

Once inside, he sat her in a chair by the sitting room fire. The bottle of whisky stood on a side table. The cap was off indicating her father’s swift exit and she felt her cheeks flame when she thought how cruel her behaviour was towards him. Wiping her eyes, she looked at Paul.

   “I suppose my parents have been to see you,” she said, not waiting for his reply. “I suppose they told you that I’ve lost it?”

   “Something of the sort.” He stood and walked over to the whiskey and poured a generous measure.

   “I thought you were staying off that?”

   “It’s not for me,” he said, and handed her the glass.

Feeling ever more of a bitch than ever, she sipped at the amber liquid.

   “Do you want to talk?”

   “What about?” She felt the rage return. “Why I threw them out of my house?”

   “That, and anything else that’s bothering you.”

   “Anything else bothering me,” she looked at him in dismay. “Well, why not. Where should I begin? Perhaps, I’m a little bit upset my son is missing, that in about six more hours you, and everyone else will give up on him. Don’t try to fob me off with some stupid explanation. I know once the first thirty-six hours is up, you will wind down the search. It’s not rocket science; I also know after that you’ll be looking for a body.”

   “Stop,” Paul held up his hand to try and stem the flow of her anger. “You’re imagining things. There is no way I’ll give up.”

   “You did before.”

Her words stung. He turned away and studied the dying embers of the fire. Jill stayed silent, aware of how much her words hurt him.

   “They were different times,” he said. “Now, there is nothing to stop me.”

   “So, you say.”

She would have smacked herself if she could, but the anger refused to remain quiet. Paul shook his head and stood up.

   “I’ll find your son if it’s the last thing I do,” he said, before walking away.

Once again, she heard the front door slam. She was crying now, not just for her terrible loss, but for the words that wounded her only ally.

   Outside in the yard, Bess barked for her attention, and Jill went to answer the call. It had grown darker still, the moon hidden behind the clouds, and the world was in shadow. The pups were nowhere to be seen, and she knew they were probably still inspecting the potato mound in the orchard. She would have no choice, but to lock them in to the outbuilding for the night. It was impossible to control them now that Toby was not there, and while she would miss the company of their mother, it was just another thing she would have to bear. The cold cut through the sleeves of her jacket, and she felt frost particles in her hair. A chill wind skimmed across the fields, disturbing the branches of the apple trees, and causing the leafless bushes to tremble at its touch. She never felt so alone and frightened in her life.

   It was quite a job to get the pups back inside, and even Bess protested being locked in, but it was too cold to leave the pups alone. They needed the warmth of their mother on such a night. Jill ignored her scratching on the door and knew she would settle down once the light in the yard was turned off. The house still stank of burned potatoes, and only then she remembered the cauldron. Let the frost do its worst, she thought, it may even make it easier to clean.

   Stripping off her jacket, she went into the kitchen and stood in front of the fire. Aware for the first time of how numb her feet were, she looked down and was surprised to see she was still wearing her ratty old slippers. Kicking them off, her socks were soaked through, so she sat down and pulled them off. Colder than ever now, she threw the packets of ham that still lay on the table, back in the fridge and went to lock the front door. The climb up the stairs took forever as she pulled herself up by the banister. Weary in both mind and body, she was still anxious to get on with learning what secrets the attic might hold. First, she would lie down for a while, and hopefully the heat from the quilt would help to thaw her frozen body. She would have slept in her clothes, if the ends of her jeans were not wet with frost. She slipped them off and still wearing her jumper, got in bed.

   Just a few minutes rest, she promised herself and then I’ll get going again. The warmth of the bed covers soothe her, and she no longer cared about the creaking and groans of the old house as she closed her eyes.

          The light from the window woke her. She was too tired to pull the curtains closed, and the watery sunlight streamed into the room. Springing up in the bed, she looked over at the clock, and saw to her dismay it was approaching noon. How in the name of God did I sleep so long, she wondered, feeling guilty she should have done so when her child was missing? Pulling on the same jeans she had worn the day before; she ran down the stairs and slipped into her boots. The answering machine showed she had fourteen missed calls, and she hadn’t even heard the phone ring! Deciding they could wait, she hurried out to the yard, and to the outbuilding that held the dogs. Bess’s look of reproach when she opened the door was hard to miss, but the pups bounded out and ran off to play.

   “Sorry,” Jill apologised to the dog. “I slept late.”

She just finished setting out their food bowls, when she heard a car approach. Paul looked as haggard as he had the night before. He was obviously he hadn’t slept and she felt the familiar guilt return, as she remembered her spiteful words and the hours she had managed to sleep.

   “Listen,” she walked over to the car. “I want to say how sorry I am about last night.”

   “No, need, we’re both tired,” he forced a smile.

   “I suppose there’s no news?”

She knew by the look on his face there wasn’t, but she had to ask.

   “Would you like something to eat?” she asked. “I was about to do something for myself, and I hate eating alone.”

   “That would be great, thanks.” He followed her into the house.

While she set about preparing the food, he checked the messages on the answering machine. This was at Jill’s request, as she did not want to have to listen to her mother berating her so early in the day.

   “Just the usual reporters,” he came back and sat at the table. “It’s lucky this farm is in such a remote area, otherwise they would have found you by now.”

   “Yes,” Jill agreed. “I’m surprised they’re not camping on my doorstep.”

   “I told everyone in the village not to give them directions, but God knows how long that will last. There is always some busybody who wants their fifteen minutes of fame.”

   “Let’s be thankful for small mercies then,” Jill said, as she placed the plate of ham and egg in front of him.

   “There were a few messages from you mother, but I’m sure you were expecting them.”

   “Yes,” Jill sat down opposite him. “I suppose she sends her love?”

   “Something like that,” he smiled.

As they ate, she wondered about telling him about her grandmother, and the books that might lie hidden in the attic. She tried to concentrate as he outlined what was done in the search, and his plans for the rest of the day. Finally, he asked. “Are you listening to me?”

She bit down on her lip and winced as the cut she had made the night before reopened.

   “Here,” he handed her a handkerchief. “Use this.”

   “Thanks,” she dabbed at the spot of blood.

   “There’s something on you mind,” he said, and then quickly added. “besides Toby, I mean?”

   “If I tell you, you’ll think I’m mad.”

   “Mmm, I’m already leaning that way,” he said, trying to make light of it. “So, go on, tell me.”

He sipped his tea and listened as she told him all about her grandmother, and the power she predicted would one day come to Jill’s aid.  When she finished, she asked.

   “Do you think it’s possible if I find the books she spoke about, they could help me find Toby?”

She held her breath, as she waited for his answer.

   “It’s a bit far-fetched,” he said. “This is the twenty-first century.”

   “I knew you’d say that,” Jill said.

   “Still, it couldn’t do any harm,” he raised an eyebrow when she looked up hopefully. “I mean, there are still a lot of old women around here who believe in such things.”

   “Really?”

   “You can’t imagine the number of times I’ve been called out to view a nest of eggs in someone’s field. They still practise piseogs, you’d have heard of them, no doubt?”

   “Yes,” Jill remembered her grandmother telling her about these so-called spells. Meant to do harm, the crops would rot, it was said, along with the eggs.

This was a terrifying thing to do to those who still believed.

   “My grandmother said anyone who did something like that was evil,” Jill said. “She always said it worked because the persons believed it would and chose to neglect the land.”

   “Well, it’s still going on.”

   “Hard to believe, isn’t it?” For a moment, she felt quite stupid for thinking she could achieve anything by magic.

   “As they say, stranger things have happened.” Paul got up and pulled on his coat.

   “So, you think there’s no harm in researching it?”

   “Why not?”

Jill knew what he was thinking if it kept her occupied, then it was worth leaving her to it.

   “I’ll call back this evening,” he assured her. “And maybe, we’ll have some news by then.”

   “Thanks,” she walked out to the yard with him.

The pups lay warming themselves in the last rays of the dying sun. Although it was just a little after one in the day, the autumn dusk was already on its way.

   “He’s not dead, you know?” Jill said.

   “I know, he’s not.” Paul was about to climb into his car, but he stopped and looked at her. “We’re going to find him, one way or the other.”

The pups followed the car to the gate, barking and running beside it. Jill closed the gate and watched until the car was out of sight. The pups ran off once their prey vanished, in search of something else to chase. So, it was just Bess that followed her back into the house and up the stairs to the attic.

The Wraith- chapter nineteen

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on April 22, 2020
Posted in: books, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Haunted Houses, horror, insomnia, letting go, memories, monsters, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, sleeplessness, twlight, Witchcraft, Witches, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

         There was no one about when Paul dropped her off that afternoon. The yard was deserted. She was glad of this, as she was anxious to begin her search of the attic. But that had to be put on hold for a while, as the urgent barking of the dogs meant she had to feed them first.

   “Whoa,” she laughed, despite her worry, as the three bundles of fur surged through the outbuilding door.

The pups jumped up on her legs, and she knew without the barrier of the denim jeans, she would have been badly scratched. Bess tried to get her unruly pups in some order, but they were restless after so many hours of being cooped up and didn’t wait until they were fed.

   “Where are they gone?” Jill asked, as she placed the three-full bowls on the ground.

Bess looked towards the orchard and the odd flash of black and white could be seen darting through the trees. She sniffed at her food, not hungry, and just as anxious as her mistress.

   “There’s nothing yet,” Jill knelt beside her and stroked the soft fur of her coat.

Bess groaned, the sound echoing Jill’s own thoughts.

   “I know, girl,” Jill said, but I have another idea that might help.”

The pups, drawn by the scent of the food, came running and she left them to continue their feasting. Bess followed her as she walked into the house. Jill heard the television in the sitting room, and she peeped inside. Her mother was asleep in one of the armchairs. She was glad she did not have to answer any questions and could go up to the attic without being seen.

   “Not a sound,” she whispered to the dog.

Taking off her boots, she placed them at the side of the coat rack and tip-toed up the stairs. The attic would be freezing now, and she chose to leave on her jacket. Bess was right behind her, so close Jill felt her warm breath on her heels.

   The stairs to the attic creaked. Jill winced and listened a moment, to make sure the sound didn’t rouse her mother. When she was certain it had not, she continued her climb. The old oil lamp sat in the same spot, on top of one of the trunks. A gas lighter had long ago replaced the box of matches and it sat beside the lamp’s round metal base. Flicking the wheel, Jill lifted the glass dome and held the flame against the wick. It sizzled as it caught fire and she watched a small shower of sparks leap from the dry linen, before replacing the glass. As in the past, the lamp lit just the first few yards of the room and she was forced to hold it higher to see what lay beyond the familiar trunks. She had to put it down a few times, to clear away the various boxes and bits of furniture that blocked the walkway, as she descended deeper into the gloom. Any other time she would have stopped and investigated various curios she came across, but for now these were pushed aside as her search continued. Though she had no idea what she was looking for, other than the books her mother had spoken of, she allowed her nose to lead her as the scent of the dried herbs and roots urged her closer.

   A large, black chest stood at the very back of the attic. It was bigger and more impressive than any of the others and Jill knew, when she touched the strong lock that held it closed, this one would not yield as easily. Despite the great age of the trunk, the lock was relatively new. Holding the lamp higher, she searched along the lid and around the sides for a key, but there was none to be found. The darker corners of the room may have held the answer, but even the light from the lamp did not reach these places, and she didn’t want to forage with her fingers. There were mice there, she knew from Bess’s darting glances into the shadows, and others thing more frightening, spiders. She shuddered at the thought, great, hairy hump-backed spiders grown fat and content in the quiet of the attic.

   There was no other choice, but to ask her father or Joe to jimmy the lock. Sighing, she sat against the trunk and looked down at the dog that stood waiting.

   “I can’t open it, Bess,” the eyes that stared back at her seemed huge in the glow from the lamp. “We’ll have to wait until the men get back. I haven’t a hope of breaking it open.”

The light outside the small window faded and she knew it would soon be dark. They would be calling off the search and Toby would be all alone for another night. She knew her son was alive; she could feel it way down inside, something primeval told her.

   “Jill, are you up there?”

The sound of her mother’s voice echoed up the stairs.

   “Yes, I’m coming down,” she made her way to the attic door, blew out the lamp and placed in back in its usual place.

Bess scurried past her, glad to be free of the dusty, dark room.

   “I see that dog got in again,” her mother tutted, when she came down on to the landing.

   “Bess is all right,” Jill did not want to get into another argument. “She has been company for me over the last few months.”

   “Yes,” she sniffed and eyed the dog, suspiciously. “You know I’ve never liked dogs.”

Or cats, Jill thought, or hamsters, pet mice and even birds. Luckily her mother had no idea what she was thinking and continued.

   “Your father and the others are on the way home. They’ll need something to eat.”

Her meaning was clear, yes, they would need feeding, but she had no intention of being the one who supplied the food.

   “I’ll get started in the kitchen,” Jill swept past her and down the stairs.

She was peeling potatoes when the excited yelps of the pups heralded the arrival of the cars in the yard. Her father was the first to enter and he walked to where she stood and kissed her forehead.

   “No news, girl,” he said, his eyes filled with sadness.

   “I know, Dad,” she went back to her work as the voices of her relatives started up in the hall.

   “All right,” Joe asked, and she nodded.

   “The dinner will take an hour, so if you want to have a wash,” she said, lost for words.

It’s strange, she thought, once he had left the room, how I no longer care about him. In the past, she imagined what she would say to him when they met, what she would have liked to say to him, that is, but her anger was replaced by a quiet acceptance that what they had was now gone and would never return. Thinking it wiser to inform her aunts and cousins about the delay in the dinner, she pushed open the door of the sitting room. She found them gathered around the fire and whispering with her mother. There was no need to guess what they were saying, as they all looked up startled when she entered. After making her excuses, she was about to leave the room when her father came up behind her. He had changed out of his damp clothes and was now in a better frame of mind.

   “Why don’t you leave the cooking, girl?” he asked. “We can get a takeaway from the village.”

   “No, Dad, it’s fine,” Jill smiled at him. “I’ve already started.”

   “Yes,” her mother called. “Leave her alone. The work will take her mind off her troubles.”

   “What can you do?” Her father asked, shrugging his shoulders.

   “I know, Dad,” she patted his hand. “Take no notice. Go in and sit by the fire. I’ll call you when the dinner is ready.”

   “Can I not help out,” he asked. “Set the table or something?”

   “No, it’s fine. There’s some whisky in the press beside the fire. Try to relax and have a rest.”

She was glad he didn’t push the subject any further, as the quiet of the kitchen helped her think. Once the potatoes were put on to boil, she searched the fridge for something to go with them. The only thing available was the cooked ham she bought for Toby’s lunch. Trying not to cry, she pulled the packets out and threw them onto the table. A large bowl of eggs sat on top of the dresser. These were a gift from a grateful patient, but neither of the doctors had any need for them, so they passed them on to Jill. She would use them along with the ham and potatoes. As she picked up the bowl, her eyes were drawn to the old photograph of her grandmother.

   “What am I going to do, Nana?” she asked, looking for answers in the kind face.

She had no other choice than to use to old gas cooker to fry the eggs, as the blaze from the fire was too high for the frying pan. The water in the old black cauldron was already bubbling; such was the intense heat from the flames. She always thought of her grandmother’s old cookware in this way, the three-legged, old pots did look like a witch’s cauldrons. Something stirred in her brain, a memory struggled to the surface and she spun around and pulled open one of the dresser drawers. A bunch of keys lay nestled among an assortment of legal documents and household bills. These were handed over to her by her grandmother’s solicitors. Of course, she thought, wrapping her hand around the cold metal ring. The key to the locked trunk would be on this.

   Prodding the potatoes with a sharp knife, she made sure she still had enough time to run back up to the attic.

   “Stay there,” she warned Bess, who made ready to move. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

The door to the sitting room was closed, so there was no one to hear her. Kicking off the old ragged slippers she wore, she tip-toed up. The door to Joe’s room was ajar and she heard the low mumble of his voice when she reached the landing. Edging closer, holding her breathe in case he should hear, she tried to find out what he was saying.

   “I can’t leave now,” he said, speaking with someone on his mobile. “I know, I know, I miss you too.”

Jill bit down hard on her bottom lip. Their son was missing, and all that bastard could think about was his new girlfriend. Her mouth stung, and she tasted the sweet coppery blood from her lip. All the pain and impotence she felt surged to the surface and she threw the door to his room open. When he saw the look on her face, Joe said a hasty goodbye and hung up.

   “Get out,” Jill shrieked. “Now.”

   “Wait, I can explain,” he started to move towards her.

   “Get your things and get out,” she was shaking from temper.

   “It’s not what you think,” he pleaded. “Just let me explain.”

The row had reached the room below, and the thundering on the stairs meant that the others were on their way.

   “What’s going on here?” Her mother demanded.

   “Keep out of this, mother,” Jill hissed.

   “She won’t let me explain,” Joe looked over her shoulder at the assortment of women who stood waiting.

   “He was talking to his new girlfriend,” Jill managed to say. “And I told him to leave.”

   “Really, Jill,” her mother’s cultured tone only served to enrage her further. “You can’t expect him to go, not now.”

Jill had no idea of how she looked, as she spun around, but her mother reaction said it all. Turning back to Joe, she asked.

   “Are you going to leave, or do I have to put you out?”

   “If you’d let me explain,” his voice was beginning to annoy her.

What she had heard only served to prove her suspicions were right. She had known, deep down, there was someone else. Joe was too needy to go without the creature comforts only a woman could provide, and he would not have left them unless he had someone else lined up. The idea of what a fool she’d been made her laugh. He frowned at the sound and looked at her mother for support.

    “Are you going to leave?” Jill asked for the last time.

When he made no move to do so, her grip tightened on the key ring and she swung. There were over ten large keys on the ring and their weight alone sent him staggering back onto the bed.

   “Christ,” he brought a hand to his face. “You fuckin’ bitch.”

   “Do I have to tell you again?” Jill raised the ring and turning to her assorted family. “I want all of you out. Now.”

Her mother, aunts and cousins spared no time in running to pack. Only her father stayed framed in the doorway and she tried to ignore his look of disappointment.

   “Sorry, Dad,” Jill tried not to cry. “But I want you to go as well.”

He nodded and walked away. She had overstepped the mark, Jill knew. While she never intended to hurt her father, she had work to do. Work that demanded she not be disturbed.

Whisper from Heaven

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on April 22, 2020
Posted in: birdsong, hope faith God whispers heaven. Leave a comment

As I sit writing in my office, my mind is constantly distracted by the sounds outside my window. Since sunrise the birds have been singing nonstop and their chirping is like a balm to the soul at this terrible time .

Even as a writer of the paranormal, I would find it impossible to envision the horror we are being confronted with every day, as so many are sick and dying. There is little relief from it, as newspapers and news programs offer scant hope. None of us know what the outcome of this terrible virus will be and all we can do is pray for a better time to come. That’s why I stopped to listen to the birdsong. I can’t help but imagine, as each note rises high into the air, that they are offering God the only thing they have, their song and asking nothing for themselves in return, but his help for mankind. Perhaps, if we pause and listen to the voices carried in the wind, we might hear his whispered reply. Stay safe, my friends.

The Wraith-chapter eighteen

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on April 21, 2020
Posted in: books, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, horror, insomnia, monsters, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, sleeplessness, thoughts, twlight, Witchcraft, Witches, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

         Today was a series of highs and low. I took time off work to join in the search. I had to show willing. All the obvious areas were checked and there is not one barn, outbuilding, or ruin that wasn’t searched. No clue came to light on the whereabouts of the boy and spirits are running low, as the hours pass, and exhaustion sets in. They brought the search and rescue in this morning, and I was out at first light to watch the boats set off. The rescue crews use dinghies, but those with boats and other small craft accompanied them. The river is ten miles from the village, and I wonder how they imagine a small boy would walk that distance. The dreaded kidnapper wouldn’t discard his prize that quickly, as the child is something to be savoured, like a fine wine.

   The divers looked like sleek seals in the dim morning light, and I watched through binoculars, as they prepared for the task. I admit my stomach gave a little flip every time one of them fell backwards into the water. I wonder what it is like to search beneath the water. I am told visibility is poor and after a few feet, it is pitch-black especially at this time of year, when there’s little sunlight. Imagine searching in the dark, feeling your way among the debris with only your senses to guide you. There were a few villagers lining the banks this morning. Some brought deck chairs and picnic hampers, and there was a bit of a party atmosphere going at one stage. We edged closer to the river every time a diver surfaced from its murky depths and not a sound was heard, as we held our breaths. I feigned disappointment when it was signalled to shore nothing was found and unlike the onlookers, I left early. I knew what the outcome would be, and once the initial excitement wore off, I became bored. I returned to work, as the weather was cold, and I did not want to catch a chill.

I thought about the boy again last night. I find this strange, as I’ve always managed to distance myself from their suffering. It’s the dark nights bring him to mind. That and the strange shuffling sounds I’ve started to hear in my home. Last night, I became a child again and left the landing light on. I found it hard to sleep, even with the help of two strong tranquilisers; I tossed and turned for ages. That is when I heard it; a slow, dragging of feet on the wooden floor, as though the walker was too weary to lift their legs. It’s no use trying to dismiss it, as it refused to be ignored. I know it’s nothing mortal, as I’d checked every window and the house alarm was on. My educations taught me there’s a rational explanation for most things, so what was it stalking me? A vision of the little girl, I can’t recall her name, swam before me and I heard her words again. I laughed, all those years ago at her childish threats, but now…There’s a key in the lock of my bedroom door. It has been there since the house was built, and I have never had reason to use it, until now. I sat for a while, listening. I didn’t dare turn on the light. The slightest movement would’ve alerted it to my presence. I stayed in the dark, watching the light flowing in from under the door. How my hands trembled as I drew my quilt closer, but I swear for the first time in my life, I became afraid of the unknown. I know you think it’s probably my imagination and I tried to convince myself the same thing, until I saw it. A shadow moved across the strip of light beneath the door. Twice it passed by and by the third time, I was weeping with terror. Gathering courage, I ran for the door and turned the key in the lock. It was standing outside, its shadow fell upon my bare toes, and I knew, it wasn’t an illusion. Can you imagine my terror knowing something stood listening at the other side of the door? All that protected me from some nameless thing was a thin sheet of wood.

   I spent the rest of the night watching its progress. There was no one I could call for help, and if I did reach for the phone and bring the doctor out on some pretence, I would have to open my door and walk out to the landing. I waited as the hours crawled by, and it was only as the first light of dawn crept into my room the infernal shuffling stopped.

   In the light of day, it’s easy to dismiss what happened and anyway, what could it be? The ghost of a child? There’s no one else I’ve hurt, or some Wraith sent to haunt me. Ha, I think not. I will pay another visit to the doctor, as I read on the leaflet enclosed with the sleeping pills, they can cause hallucinations. That’s probably what it was, the effects of the pills coupled with my overwrought mind.

   The rest of the day passed slowly. My work bores me, I no longer find pleasure in the things I once enjoyed. Hour after monotonous hour crawled by until I was free from the confines of my labours. There would be a further meeting in the school assembly hall this evening and I’d be there. You know how I thrive on the uncertainty, how the confusion and distress serve to excite me. I did visit the doctor and to my disappointment, she wasn’t there, the boy’s mother. It’s crass of me to expect she’d be working under the circumstances. She strikes me as the stiff upper lip type, and I would have liked to witness her distress, but it was not to be. The doctor agreed it was the pills causing my nightmares and illusions and changed my prescription. He was kind enough to add anyone could be excused having bad dreams with all that was going on. We exchanged a few pleasantries, swapped theories on what happened to the boy. I almost laughed, when he described what he’d like to do to the person involved; for a man of medicine, tut tut.

   The house didn’t have the same air of foreboding it had earlier in the day. My courage was renewed by the bottle in my pocket and in the comforting rattle of the pills, which I was assured, would knock out a horse. I’ve taken to reading Freud; did I tell you that? Not that’s it done me a bit of good, but I’ve persevered through endless pages of twaddle. He believes we can’t control any of our actions, as we’re victims of what’s gone before. Something about men being afraid of having their penis cut off. What twaddle! I agree with him on one point, as that part of the anatomy was the catalyst for all the horror; at least in Freddy’s and Christy’s case. He believes psychoanalysis is the key and anyone can be transformed, if they put themselves in the care of a professional. It made me laugh when I thought of Freddy, who is madder that any of the misfortunates who share their darkest secrets with him. If only I could believe what Freud said was true and I could turn my life around, but the compulsion is too strong, I know I’m a creature of habit. No, I’m clutching at straws, now the time is upon me, and I search for ways out that were never an option.

After dinner, I decided to take a stroll down to the school. As usual, the place was buzzing with a constant stream of people. It was dark when I got there, and the lights from the assembly hall were the only thing cutting through the night. All the shops were closed and shuttered for the night and my footsteps echoed in the still air. I thought I saw something in the shadows, but I’m sure it was my imagination. I see danger behind every bush and tree and jump at the slightest sound. Thankfully my colleagues excuse this as understandable with all the tension in the air, etc. I’ll have to try and pull myself together. If others hear the tremor in my voice, they will become suspicious, and I would not want to rouse their wrath.

   I made my presence known by volunteering to help. Paul O’Farrell was there, fielding calls and interviewing witnesses. He looked haggard from want of sleep, but I’ve seen him look this way before. Still, I can’t help, but derive some sort of satisfaction knowing I’m the cause of his suffering and the witnesses have nothing much to offer.

   “Would you mind sitting in for me?” He asked. “Take any calls and tell them I’ll phone back.”

   “No problem,” I assured him.

   “I’ll want to slip home and have a shower,” he explained.

There were three other desks in the room, and a police officer sat at each of the other two. They showed the same signs of neglect and stress and watched the retreating figure of their superior with a mixture of disgust and yearning. Once the room emptied and the phones ceased to ring, I suggested they follow suit and assured them of my ability to cope. They hung on to this suggestion like drowning men and shook my hand before walking away. I realise something, not God, that is for sure, was on my side, as they had no sooner disappeared through the door, when a ghost from my past entered. My hands shook and the words on the A4 pad in front of me merged until I couldn’t read them. I made pretence of writing, but I saw later what I wrote made no sense. I hadn’t seen him in nine years and never expected to see him again, so his appearance was disconcerting.

   If he recognised me, he gave no sign, other than to hand in the map marked with the area he’d searched.

   “Any news?” I felt the hopelessness in his question.

   “None, I’m afraid,” was my sad answer, as I put on what I call, my “undertakers face”, mournful and full of understanding.

Though I didn’t want to make any further conversation with him, the man refused to leave and walked to the area set up as a makeshift canteen and poured himself a coffee.

   “Want one?” he held the pot up.

   “No, thank you,” I replied. “I’ve been drinking it all day.”

   “I can imagine,” he came and sat in the chair opposite my desk.

He thought I was playing a major part of the search.

   “I can’t believe it’s happening again,” he said.

I looked up at him and frowned, pretending not to know what he meant.

   “Oh, you don’t know about the others?”

   “Only from what I’ve been told,” I said. “I’ve read some of the old reports, but I arrived in the village when the first child went missing.”

At first, I wondered if my words betrayed me, as he was watching me closely.

   “I was working abroad,” I explained. “I came back home when my father passed away. He lived here for many years.”

   “I see,” he nodded, and I saw something in his eyes.

Was it a fleeting glimpse of suspicion? My imagination is apt to play tricks on me and my nerves are not the best.

   “My daughter was the first child to go missing,” he continued. “She was only seven at the time and it destroyed my family.”

   “I’m so sorry,” I patted his hand.

Did he flinch at my touch, I think he did? I willed the doors to open, but the cold drove the most hardened indoors and there was nothing to relieve me from his probing gaze.

   “My wife took her own life a year later,” he continued, and I swear there was accusation in his tone. “She never recovered from her loss, neither did I.”

   “There can be nothing worse than the death of a child,” I hoped this sounded sincere.

   “I never said she was dead,” his eyes became cold lasers boring into my soul. “Only she’s missing.”

   “Of course, I understand.”

My tortured nerves screamed.

   “I’m sorry,” he placed his cup down on the desk. “I’m tired, and I shouldn’t be taking it out on you.”

   “We’re all tired,” I gave him my sad smile again. “You should go home and try to rest.”

   “Are you on all night?” He looked around the empty hall.

   “No, until the detective in charge gets back.”

   “Paul, I met him earlier today.”

   “He’s gone home to have a shower and something to eat,” I explained.

   “He must be exhausted,” he said. “I remember when he was searching for Rachael. He’s a good man, but the odds were stacked against him.”

   “What do you mean?” I was troubled by his inference.

   “The person who took the boy is well organised. It’s probably a gang of some sort, don’t you think?”

   “I can’t imagine,” I’m sure I stuttered.

   “Oh, definitely a gang,” he mused. “This isn’t some lunatic working alone. The boy is probably miles from here and time is running out.”

I nodded, unable to speak. Of all the theories put forward, his was the most accurate. The realisation of how close he came to the truth left me dumbfounded, but I managed to wish him goodnight.

   My house seems like a sanctuary after the terror of that meeting, and I’ve turned the key in the bedroom door locking myself in. The prescription bottle instructed I take only one of the sleeping pills, but I’ve taken two to be on the safe side. Despite my fright I’m still counting, 112…

The Wraith-chapter seventeen

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on April 20, 2020
Posted in: 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, insomnia, monsters, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, twlight, Witchcraft, Witches, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

The drive to the next village only took half an hour, but to Jill’s tortured soul it seemed like forever before she pulled into the estate named in the newspaper. The article had not given a house number, and there was no way of telling which house he lived in. The small housing estate was well kept with the usual hanging baskets outside, drab now that the frost had done its worst, but it was easy to imagine how bright they looked in full bloom.

   She drove around a while, gliding from one avenue to another in search of a sign. Perhaps, she imagined an event such as the one witnessed within the house, had left a mark, some outward scar easy to recognise or a memory plaque. Deciding it was wiser to wait and see if Paul arrived, she steered the car back towards the entrance to the estate and pulled up at the curb. It was still two days before Halloween, but children ran by dressed in multi-coloured costumes of goblins, ghouls and various ghosts.  A witch stopped and shook a broomstick at her, and the act that once couldn’t have failed to raise a smile, seemed threatening. A movement on her right made her turn, and to her relief she came face to face with Paul, who pulled up alongside her. His face was grey from exhaustion and she could tell by the way he looked at her, that he was not pleased.

The wind whipped her coat around her when she got out of the car and she shivered at its touch. Paul parked in front of her, and she walked over and climbed into the passenger seat.

   “Don’t you think he’s suffered enough?”

For a moment, she was lost for words.

   “I thought he might remember something, some little clue overlooked at the time.”

   “The man is in bits,” he rubbed at his forehead. “This is the last thing he needs.”

   “Do you really think I’d be bother him, if I wasn’t desperate?”

. Her throat felt dry and she wrung her fingers together until they hurt.

   Sighing, Paul turned on the ignition. The car had already started to steam up, and they sat in silence waiting for the windows to clear. Still unsure of what might happen, he pulled away from the curb, and drove deeper into the estate. The house they pulled in front looked devoid of life. Unlike the other houses no garish pumpkin lights or cardboard ghosts welcomed the season, just one lone, unlit candle in the window to light the way for the lost souls. Although it was only midmorning, the sky was grey and gloomy. There was something about this time of year Jill thought, that sets the mind wandering to darker things.

   “I told him you were coming.”

Jill looked at Paul in dismay.

   “It was only fair,” he shrugged. “The last thing he needs is a hysterical woman turning up on his doorstep.”

   “I am not hysterical,” she said, through gritted teeth.

Deciding it wiser not to antagonise him, she steered the conversation another way, as they walked up the path.

   “Does he work?”

   “He works,” Paul said, as he pushed the bell. “He takes this week off. It’s the anniversary of his wife’s death.”

Before she could say anything more the door opened, and Paul held out his hand. He stepped inside, and looked back, motioning her to follow. She could just make out the shape of Rachael’s father, as he led them into the sitting room. Like the hallway, this room was gloomy and wreathed in shadow. The whole house seemed to lie under a cloak, as though the very sunlight avoided this place, unsure of its welcome.

   Paul’s voice roused her as he introduced their host. Jill was face to face with the man who could empathise with her suffering.

   “I’m so sorry,” he said, reaching for her hand.

The fingers that clasped hers were cold, and held on a little longer than necessary, as though hoping to draw some warmth from her touch.

   “Thank you,” she said, allowing her hand to slip from his, and took the seat offered.

He sat on the chair beside her, so she watched him from the corner of her eye. As Paul spoke, bringing him up to speed on what had happened, and explaining the reason they were there, she studied the man. He was in his late thirties, she knew from reading the paper, but he seemed older. His shoulders were hunched, as though weighed down by the terrible burden he bore. The skin on his face stretched across the bones, causing deep hollows in his cheeks. The light had faded from his eyes and was replaced with a dullness that made her think of the death of the spirit. A small cut marked his chin, left there no doubt, by a blunt blade. Despite his terrible loss, this signalled he still managed to function, and the realisation that this might one day be her, caused the tears that were threatening, to overflow.

   “I’m sorry,” she said, as she tried to cover her face, so they did not witness the onslaught, but they were both beside her in an instant.

   “There now,” Paul patted her back, while Tom, Rachael’s father, ran to pour her some brandy.

   “Try and drink a little,” he held the glass to her lips, and she sipped.

The shock of the fiery alcohol made her gasp, but it warmed her, and she was able to stop sobbing.

   “I didn’t mean upset you,” she looked at Tom. “I thought you might remember something that was overlooked.” She wiped her nose in the handkerchief Paul had given her.

   “Don’t apologise,” Tom smiled, and when he did, a small light came back to his eyes. “I would do the same, if I were in your position. I have been racking my brains since Paul rang. There isn’t a day that goes by I don’t think about what happened, but there’s nothing I can recall that might help you. I wasn’t there when Rachael disappeared. I suppose you know the story?”

   “Only what I read in some old newspapers I found in my grandmother’s house,” Jill sniffed. “And I looked up some of the articles in the library.”

   “It’s nine years since I last saw my daughter,” He seemed to be thinking out loud. “And it’s eight years ago that I lost my wife.”

Jill looked at Paul, unsure what to say, but he shook his head, warning her to be quiet.

   “Jill’s son, Toby, has been missing since yesterday and we’ve been searching non-stop,” Paul said.

   “He’s not around here.” Tom’s words chilled her. “Whoever took him is organised, knows how to cover his tracks. I’ve been researching them ever since Rachael went missing.”

   “I was only fifteen minutes late,” Jill dabbed at her eyes. “I had a flat tire.”

   “It wouldn’t have mattered; your son was marked by whoever took him. If your check the tire, I’ll bet you’ll find a nail, or something placed there deliberately.”

   “Do you really think so?”

   “I’ll have the spare tire checked,” Paul promised, and left the room to make the call.

Once they were alone, Jill tried to smile at Tom through her tears.

   “This is a terrible time for you,” he said. “And I wish to God I could say it’ll get better.”

   “Tell me about Rachael,” Jill wanted to change the subject. “What was she like?”

   “Oh, a bundle of fun, but very determined,” he smiled again at the memory. “It was like trying to control a whirlwind, Marie always said. She was feisty, always sticking up for herself. We used to joke that in olden times she would have been a warrior.”

She knew he was speaking about his wife, and her eyes strayed to the collection of framed photographs on the side table. In one, a woman she took to be Marie was cuddling a blond, bright-eyed little girl, who was the image of her mother. She recognised Rachael from all the photos in the newspapers. Tom caught her looking, picked up the frame and handed it to her.

   “They were like two peas in a pod, everyone said. More like friends than mother and daughter. Always discussing clothes and the latest accessories, despite Rachael being just a baby in my eyes. She loved all the girlie things, ribbons, hair clips, that sort of stuff.”

   “What happened that day,” Jill ran her fingers over the smiling faces in the picture.

   “It was dinner time. I was due home from work and Marie was getting the meal ready. The ice cream van came into the estate, and you know how those chimes call to the children. I used to think at the time he was like the Pied Piper. Well, even though it was time to eat, Rachael begged her mother for money for an ice cream, and we could never resist those big blue eyes.”

   “Yes,” Jill smiled down at the photograph. “I can see why.”

   “That was it really,” he sighed. “She ran out the door and was never seen again. They even tried to blame me at first. The father it seems, is always under suspicion. At least, you will be spared that, being a woman, I mean.”

   “So, I have something to be grateful for?”

   “No, no, of course not,” he placed a hand on her arm. “I just meant you won’t have to go through that. Forgive me?”

   “Yes, I’m sorry, it’s my fault,” Jill said. “I’m a bit sensitive now. I keep imagining what they are doing to my child and I…”

The rest of the sentence was lost in a fit of weeping.

   “I know, I know,” Tom’s grip tightened. “I never stop thinking about it, but now I wonder where she is, and pray one day I will find her and bring her home; if only to lie beside her mother.”

   When Paul came back to the room, they were deep in conversation, and he waited until there was a lull to speak.

   “One of the lads is taking your car in for inspection,” he held out his hand for the keys. “I’ll drive you home.”

   “Any news?” Jill asked.

   “Nothing, I’m afraid,” he looked from one to the other.

When he had left to answer the ringing of the doorbell, Tom turned to her.

   “I don’t want you to give up hope, but they’ll never catch them, not the way they’re working.”

   “Then what can I do to help?”

   “Pray for a miracle,” he stood up. “In the meantime, I’m going to join in the search. It’s no good sitting around feeling sorry for myself when your son has a chance.”

   “You think he has a chance?”

   “I don’t know, it’s a feeling,” he brought his hand to his stomach. “Something tells me a miracle is possible.”

He walked into the hall and took his coat off a peg.

   “I’ll be joining you,” he told a bemused Paul.

   “Great,” Paul nodded at Jill, as she stood.

The afternoon was raw with frost when they stepped outside. Jill shivered. She had kept her coat on inside the house, and now it offered little protection from the cold.

   “I’ll follow in my car,” Tom said.

   “Right. We have an incident room set up at the school,” Paul informed him. “If you go there first, they’ll tell you what to do.”

   “Fine. Keep in touch,” Tom said to Jill.

   “Thanks, I will,” she nodded, before walking away.

As she stepped outside the gate, a gang of monsters, clutching bags of sweets, ran screaming past and the sound of their excited cries made her draw back in fear.

   “Come on,” Paul took her arm and led her to the car. “We’ll have to contend with that for the next few days, firecrackers, bangers and rotten eggs.”

   “It’s only a bit of fun,” Jill said.

   “Yeah, burnt fingers and nuisance calls from people saying their house has been egged.”

He looked across at her as she raised her eyebrows.

   “I know, I know,” he laughed. “I’m soooo old.”

It was strange to hear him laugh and it felt good, despite her worries. Something had happened in that sad house, something said that made her feel all was not lost. As they headed back along the dark roads leading to home, her spirits rose when she thought of the attic and the books lying in wait. Tom was right; they would not find Toby, but not their way. It was up to her now, and she would use the knowledge of her ancestors to find her son. Looking up at the sky and the dark clouds that scurried past, she saw in them the shape of the women who had gone before, hurrying to join in her search.

The Wraith- Chapter sixteen

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on April 19, 2020
Posted in: books, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Halloween, horror, insomnia, letting go, monsters, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, Witchcraft, Witches, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

“Toby,” Jill’s scream caused her mother to drop the cup she was holding, and the crash mingled with the dying cry. Overcome with exhaustion, Jill had fallen asleep in the chair by the fire, and it was the sound of Toby’s voice that woke her.

   “My God,” her mother, always the drama queen, brought a hand to her heart and feigned severe shock.

They were alone in the kitchen. Her father, Joe and the others had gone to join in the search.

   “What time is it?” She chose to ignore her mother’s theatrics.

   “A little after nine,” she bent to scoop the fallen china into a dustpan. “I thought it wiser to let you sleep. There’s no news yet. I was talking to your father a few minutes ago.”

   “I heard, Toby,” she looked up at her mother in dismay. “He called me, said he was in a cold, dark room.”

   “Really,” her mother sniffed and walked to the bin.

   “Yes, mother, really.” She didn’t mean to sound so cross, but her mother had a way of winding her up. “Why is it so hard for you to believe I might have heard him?”

   “I had to put up with that sort of thing all my life,” her mother sat at the table. “Your grandmother was always predicting things. I had nightmares imagining the sort of oddities she had stored in the attic.”

   “What sort of things?”

   “Oh, God knows,” she sighed. “All manner of stuff; from bits of bog oak to books and herbs. It still has that strange, musky smell, don’t you think? The attic, I mean. I never liked the place, and we avoided it as children. That’s why I never understood your fascination with it.”

   “It was just a place to play at dress up and explore,” Jill said.

   “A place to fill your head with her nonsense more like,” her mother replied. “I don’t know how many times I caught her reading to you from those awful books. Do you remember the summer I refused to let you come here?”

Jill shook her head.

   “Well, you were very young, and I warned her what would happen if she continued with her nonsense. It really was the last straw, taking you in to the woods at night! The shock of not having you visit that summer taught her a lesson.”

Jill got up and joined her at the table.

   “What happened?” She asked.

   “Oh, she promised that there would be no more of her so-called “teachings”, and I allowed you to resume your visits.”

Jill looked at her mother in wonder. How could she have been so cruel as to deprive them both the highlight of their year?

   “I know what you’re thinking.” Her mother made a great show of brushing some crumbs into the palm of her hand. “But your grandmother was starting to get a bit peculiar at that stage, and I only wanted what was best for both of you.”

   “Is it not possible she was right, that she had second sight or whatever you want to call it?”

   “Oh, her predictions came true, no doubt of that, but it was mostly guess work. Anyway, she never shared any of her secrets with us. We didn’t have the power or the mark,” she reached across and pulled back the collar of Jill’s blouse, exposing the crescent shape. “So, there you have it.”

Was that it, Jill wondered? Was it jealousy that made her mother and aunts treat her with such disdain? Managing to keep her tone low and even, she asked.

   “Why did Nana think she had powers?”

   “I see you avoided the history lesson,” her mother sneered. “It seems one of our ancestors was burned as a witch.”

   “What,” Jill gasped. “You can’t be serious?”

   “It’s true; I checked it out for myself when I was older. I suppose I wanted to rub it in her face, show that her stories were fairy tales made up to make her life seem more thrilling than it was, but she was right. It happened in the sixteenth century, and it was the only thing of note that ever happened to this family.”

   “A witch,” Jill shook her head in wonder.

   “Yes, a witch,” her mother sighed. “That’s why she never had electricity installed in the attic. She said there were books up there that were hundreds of years old and best kept in the dark. Honestly, can you believe it?”

   “I don’t know,” Jill said. “I don’t know what to believe.”

   “Don’t go getting ideas in your head,” her mother warned. “Your grandmother was a dreamer like you, and no doubt, she managed to fill your head with her nonsense, but that’s all it is, nonsense.”

   “The woman they burned, she was just a healer, right?”

   “Probably just some misguided soul, who imagined she had power.”

The ringing of the telephone roused them, and Jill waited as her mother went to answer it.

   “Just some reporter,” she shrugged, when she came back. “I told him you were too upset to speak to anyone.”

   “Thank you.”

   “Why don’t you have a wash,” her mother suggested. “The kettle is boiled.”

Wrapping a cloth around the handle, she carried the black pot over to the table and set it down beside her daughter.

   “Thanks, I’ll do that.” The old kettle weighed a ton, and her arm ached as she carried it up the stairs.

In a house with no heating system, taking a bath was a major event, so she had come to rely on washing in the sink. Pushing the stopper in place, she turned on the cold tap and poured the hot water. Using her finger as a gauge, she got it to the right temperature and was glad to put the kettle down on the wood floor beside her. Stripping off her sweat-soaked clothes, she stopped for a moment to stare at her face in the hazy mirror above the sink. Dark circles were beginning to form beneath her eyes and added to the pallor of her skin. They made her look ghostly. Sighing, she picked up the washcloth and soap that lay waiting and plunged them into the water. She shivered, despite the warmth, as she washed her upper body, then balancing on the edge of the old bath managed to wash her feet.

Peeping through the door, she made sure her mother was not about, before running across the hall to her room. With only the bunched-up clothes she discarded to hide her shame, she didn’t want to run into her mother and listen to her sighs of disapproval. For the first time, she turned the key in the lock. Throwing the sweaty clothes into the wash basket, she went in search of clean ones. Her wardrobe now consisted mainly of jeans and jumpers. There was very little reason to dress up, and the sturdiness of the clothes she chose was more suitable for farm work. The only concession was the business suit and an assortment of blouses she had not stored away in the attic.

   Looking up at the ceiling, she thought of her mother’s words, and wondered what secrets the room held. Weary from lack of sleep and worry about her son, she sank down on the bed and pulled on her jeans.

   “I’m tired, Nana,” she whispered, and put her head in her hands. “And I’m so frightened.”

   It was either lack of food or sleep that caused the dizziness in her head and she moaned and curled into a ball in the centre of the bed. Without realising it, she was crying again, and she clutched at the quilt as her body shook from sheer terror. A soft breeze ruffled her hair, its touch like the hand of a loved one and she heard for the first time the voice that was lost to her.

   “You will find your greatest ally among the dead.”

   “Nana,” she shot up in the bed and looked around the room.

No one there; the only sound was the shrill, constant ringing of the telephone in the hall below. But she had heard it, her grandmother’s voice telling her what to do. She was too caught up in her own nightmare to even think about being afraid, and then why should she be? Her grandmother loved her, and she knew in that moment love could survive the grave. Still, the words made little sense and she moved to the edge of the bed and stared at the wall. The pattern of flowers on the old wallpaper blended and merged before her tired eyes and she shook her head to clear it.

   “Shit,” she blinked, but the movement continued, stems knotting together to form words.

Easing her way up, she walked tentatively across the room and placed her hand against the wall. The pattern was the same as it had always been, but between the buds and stems a single word had formed. “Sentinel,” she whispered the name, and strained her eyes further searching for a clue, but even that had vanished, and she was left to wonder if it was all her imagination. Of course, it had to be, as there was nothing left on the wall, no matter how she squinted or approached it from a different angle. I’m going mad, she thought. That’s it; the horror is causing me to lose my mind.

   “Jill,” her mother called from the hall below.

Walking to the top of the stairs, she looked down. Her mother waved the telephone receiver at her.

   “It’s Paul O’Farrell, that detective,” she whispered. “Do you want me to say you’re busy?”

   “No, I’ll take it,” she ran down the stairs and took the phone from her mother. “Paul,” she said, and waited for his reply.

   “There’s no news yet, I’m afraid,” his voice was heavy with defeat. “I just wanted to see how you were.”

   “Is there nothing?” She started to cry; all her self-control worn away.

   “No, we questioned his classmates this morning and one or two remembers him walking along the village towards home. That’s about right, as we found his satchel at the side of the road. It looks like he got into a car.”

   “Oh, Jesus,” she sank down on to the stairs. “What are we going to do?”

She knew he was still speaking, but she heard nothing of what he said. Instead her grandmother’s words returned and the outline of the message on the wall swam before her eyes. Of course, Sentinel. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? Dropping the phone, she ran into the kitchen.

   “There was a bundle of old newspapers here,” she pointed at the table. “What have you done with them?”

   “I thought they were rubbish,” her mother said. “I put them outside in the bin.”

Jill ran out the front door and around the side of the house to where she kept the bins. The lid of the green recycling one was pushed down hard, and she pulled, praying that the papers were not torn or wet. To her relief they lay much the same as when she had first found them.

   As she walked back to the house, she heard her mother apologising to Paul for her rude behaviour. He was still holding, afraid something happened to Jill, and she took the receiver.

   “Paul, I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I just remembered something. I’ll tell you later.”

   “Fine.” He didn’t sound at all sure, but happy enough to go along if it helped ease her suffering. “I’ll ring you in an hour or so. We’ll talk then.”

   “Great, thanks,” she said, anxious to get off the phone and hung up.

   Unrolling the bundle on the kitchen table, the newspaper name leapt out at her, Sentinel. Her mother decided she was best left alone and wandered off to watch television in the other room. Jill scanned the familiar pages, using her finger as a guide. She didn’t want to chance missing out on one word and perhaps overlook a clue. There was nothing new in what she read, and her thoughts kept coming back to the photograph of Rachel’s father, as he crouched beside the grave of his wife. There was something in his face, a look she remembered from the mirror upstairs. Like hers, his face was devoid of hope.

   Her car keys lay on the worktop beside the sink and she snatched them up and went into the hall. Taking the notepad beside the phone, she scribbled down Paul’s number and the address where she was headed.

   “Will you ring this number for me?” She asked her mother. “Tell him I’m going there, and ask him to meet me, if he can,”

Before her mother could protest, Jill was out the door and in her car. As she passed the outhouses, she heard Bess’s barked protest at being locked in, but she had no time to stop. Not even certain she was on the right track she prayed Rachael’s father would know something, anything that might lead her to her son.

The Wraith- Chapter Fifteen

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on April 18, 2020
Posted in: books, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Haunted Houses, horror, insomnia, monsters, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, sleeplessness, twlight, Witchcraft, Witches, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

         Toby lay on the bed, afraid to move. He had just woken and had was unsure of where he was. He knew he wasn’t at home, and if he called out, there would be no familiar voice to answer him. Kneading his fingers into the sour-smelling quilt beneath him, he tried not to cry. The darkness all around seemed absolute, and he was terrified at what he would find, if he sat up. His face was sticky and smelled bad, so he brought his hand up, and touched the wet spot on his chin. His stomach had rebelled against the fumes of the chloroform.

   “Ouch,” he could not suppress his groan of pain.

The drug-soaked cloth was pressed against his skin with such ferocity it had burned his nose, cheeks and chin. Of course, he was unaware of the red marks that marred his face and knew only that he was hurt. His throat ached, adding to his discomfort and he bit down hard on his sore lip. The memory of his ordeal was returning, and he tried to hold back the tears. Squeezing his eyes shut, he prayed this was all a bad dream and he’d wake at any moment in his own bed.

   “Mam?” his question echoed in the silence of the dark room.

There was, as he had expected, no answer, and he pulled his knees up and rolled into a ball in the centre of the bed. Despite the fact he was still wearing his anorak, he was shivering, and the air around him felt cold and damp. Something nudged against his side and hurt him. Allowing his hand to move down to the source of his discomfort, he felt in his pocket.

   “Superman,” he held his favourite action figure against him, glad of the company in this strange place.

The softness of the doll’s cape felt good against his skin, and the familiar scent made Toby feel just that little bit braver. Sitting up, he wiped his face with the back of his hand.

   “Yuck.” There was residue still in his mouth, so he spat and wiped his hand on the quilt.

With Superman in one hand, he edged his way back on the bed, to where he imagined the headboard would be. To his surprise, his back met the bare wall and damp, cold wood.

   A small light glowed in one corner of the room, but it did little to dispel the gloom, and there were dark shapes everywhere.

   “Hello,” he called, hoping someone would hear him.

He held his breath, as he waited, but there was no one. The only sound came from the slight throbbing of a motor somewhere far away. In the distance, he heard the gentle crying of the wind.

   Moving to the edge of the bed, he felt the solidness of the earth beneath his feet and stood up.

   “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered to the doll. “We’ve been in worse situations.”

Mimicking the words of his hero, he felt his way around the room. The first item throbbed beneath his fingers and buzzed like a swarm of bees. It was cold and shiny to the touch. Letting his hand move down to the front, he located a handle and pulled. Instantly the room glowed with light, as the fridge door opened. He studied the contents and was relieved to find it filled with all sorts of goodies. Mostly the kind of stuff his mother would not allow him to eat. There were lots of fizzy drinks, chocolate, biscuits, some cheese, ham, butter, bread and loads of other stuff. Four large cartons of milk lined the door, but what boy could resist cola, and he took a can off the shelf. The hiss of the carbonated drink filled the room, as the metal pull gave way and he gulped, aware once again of the pain in his throat. The sugar rush worked its magic, and he burped loudly, delighted by the sound.

   Leaving the door open, he used the light to find his way around the rest of the room. Chomping on a biscuit, he searched his prison. There was a large cupboard set against one of the walls a stout lock guarding whatever was inside. He flinched and pulled his hand away, when he touched the heater. Although barely warm, it was a surprise to find heat of any kind, and he traced his fingers along the accordion shape and down the side. Locating the button that regulated the heat, he pressed it down another notch. By the time he was finished looking around, the room was already becoming much warmer and he took his anorak off.

   Some things in the room puzzled him. Like the old-fashioned iron bath and he shivered, hoping he was not expected to wash in it. Beside it sat a weird thing, shaped kind of round, and he lifted the lid and peeped inside. It was a toilet, of sorts, more of a big potty really, and he knew he would never use such a thing. After all, he was seven years old.

The novelty of searching his new surroundings soon wore off, and even Superman was beginning to lose some of his initial bravery. Toby climbed back onto the bed and wondered what he should do next. The fridge buzzed loudly, protesting the intrusion of warm air into its icy innards. His mother often scolded him for leaving the door open, and he knew he should close it, but was afraid of the dark. Still, he thought, the food might go bad if he didn’t, and sliding off the bed, he walked over and pushed it shut. Instantly the room was bathed in shadows, and he hurried back to his place on the bed. Holding the doll against his face, he moved his lips over the ridges that served as curly waves on its head.

   “What’ll we do, Superman?” He wondered out loud.

I won’t cry, he thought, I’ll think of a plan to get free. He felt tired, and since there was no clock in the room, and no window to show what time it was, he decided to sleep. Turning the quilt over so he didn’t have to lie on the vomit stains, he lay down and placed the doll on the pillow beside him. It was just possible to make out the red and blue of the costume in the dim light, and he was glad he always carried the figure with him. It would have been extra scary without Superman.

   As his head filled with plans, each one more daring and dangerous than the last, he tried not to think of his mother and home, but it was no use. The tears that welled up in his eyes were so big they burned and refused to stay back.

   “I’m not afraid,” he assured the doll. “I’m just worried about my Mam. She’ll be missing me by now.”

The doll’s expression never changed, and Toby took this as a sign it understood what he had said was true. Sniffing and wiping away the tears, he lay back down.

   “Did you know he was a bad man?” he asked.

When Superman didn’t reply, Toby thought he probably had known. If he had tried to warn him, then Toby had not heard, but it was hard to be heard when you’re stuffed into someone’s pocket.

   “Never mind,” he patted the cold plastic of the doll’s chest. “We’ll think of something.”

As he drifted off to sleep, Toby couldn’t help but remember the bad man.

It was cold that day, and he waited until after everyone had gone, to go looking for his mother. She was never late, and he knew he should do as she asked, and stay inside the school railings until she came, but he was freezing. He heard the bang as the huge door was closed, and he walked to the edge of the building and watched as Mr Jackson turned the big key. He was laughing with Mr Keane about something, and Toby wondered if he should go and tell them his mother was late but decided against it. The men didn’t see him, as the teachers’ car park was on the opposite side from the school gates, and it felt weird and kind of nice to be left alone in the empty playground. For a while he ran around in the side yard pretending, he could fly. With Superman in one hand, he jumped and swirled until he was tired and dizzy. Going back to the gates, he was surprised his mother still had not arrived, and walked outside to look down the road, in the direction in which she would drive.

Sighing, and not willing to wait any longer, he started off in what he believed to be the way home. Passing the shops and the police station, he waved now and then to the odd friend, who was still shopping with their mothers. Soon there was no pathway to walk on, and he had to skim along the verge of the road. There were hardly any cars, once he had left the village, so there was no need for him to hop up on to the grass. He stopped only when he heard a motor approach and jumped on the mound beside him. To his surprise, the car stopped, and the driver wound down the window.

   “Hello, Toby,” the man smiled. “Your mother sent me to collect you. She’s had to take Bess to the vet. It seems that the dog got into an argument with a hedgehog and got herself spiked.”

   “I don’t know,” Toby looked at the door that was pushed open from inside.

His mother had always warned him about getting into strange cars.

   “Hurry up,” the man glanced in his rear-view mirror. “I haven’t got all day, I have cows to milk, and I’m doing this as a favour to your mother.”

Well, Toby decided, he did know about Bess, and his mother would be cross if he didn’t take the lift. 

   “Thank you,” he climbed in and was about to haul his satchel after him, when a movement in the corner of his eye stopped him.

His eyes opened wide with terror as the man grabbed him and held a cloth over his mouth. He struggled, unable to breathe, and tried to push the hands that held his head in a vice-like grip away, but it was useless. He felt the satchel slip from his fingers as the fumes overcame him, and he remembered nothing more until he had woken in the cold, dark room.

   He cried out in his sleep as the memory of the suffocating cloth on his face returned.

   “No,” he screamed, jumping up in the bed.

Sweat made his clothes cling to his body, and the heat intensified the stench of the room. The reek of mustiness and damp earth was choking, so he slipped from the bed and walked over to switch the heater off. He was panting and could feel his hair sticking to the back of his neck. Pulling off his school jumper, he used it as a towel to wipe his face. The draft from the open fridge cooled him as he searched inside for another cold drink. He held the can against his cheeks, until he got his breathing under control, and his heart stopped racing. He knew it had not been a bad dream, and what he recalled had really happened, but it was beyond him why the man should have taken him. He was too small to be a slave, he reasoned, maybe the man had no little boy of his own and wanted one. Either way, he had done a very bad thing in taking Toby, and the police would be very angry. His mother would have told them by now, and they would be looking for him.

   There was a noise above him head. A scratching and digging that was, in fact, nothing more sinister that the nocturnal foraging of a fox, but to Toby’s terrified imagination; it became a monster trying to claw its way in. Leaving the fridge door open, no longer caring if the food went bad; he ran back to the bed and grabbed his Superman doll.

   “Go away,” he screamed, braver now that his superhero was close. “Leave us alone.”

The fox picked up its ears at the sound and scampered away into the trees. Toby sat shivering and looking up to where the sound had come from. It was gone now, he decided, the monster must have realised he was not alone, that Superman was there too.

   “I hope they come for us soon,” he told the doll, before curling up against the cold wood on the wall behind the bed.

In his mind, he pictured his mother rallying the police to action, and the millions of people who would be looking for him. He had seen on the news how helicopters were used in searching for missing people, and he wondered if he would get to ride in one of them. Anyway, he thought, pulling the foul-smelling quilt closer; if the police don’t find me, Bess will. She was a great tracker and could always sniff out the rabbits in the orchard, so she would probably guide them to him. They could always ask his mother. She knew everything, and she could even read his mind. He knew this, because she could always tell if he was lying. It was impossible to hide anything from her. She was aware of the most secret things like if he didn’t brush his teeth or finish his homework.

   Despite the light from the open fridge door, there were parts of the room that were still hidden, and he tried to not to think of the things that might be lurking there. Reaching out with his mind, he called to his mother. Mam, help me, I’m locked up in a big, scary, dark room and I want to come home.

   Covering his face with his hands, he screamed, as the shadows that had lain in wait swooped from the corners of the room.

Ancient Gods

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on April 18, 2020
Posted in: Ghost. Tagged: , , , , , , . Leave a comment

With the lock-down upon us I have become more nocturnal and like some fleeting vampire, I now tend to do any business I need to once the sun has gone down. Take for instance a visit to the bank. This is done at the ATM when the streets are deserted and I am left alone in the quiet hush of late evening. As I drive home, I pass two of the major supermarkets and am always aghast at what’s happening. Last night, there were a number of youths gathered around their cars and believe me, there was no sign of social distancing. I actually drove into the car park to observe the comings and goings and sat in stunned silence watching those who emerged from the supermarkets bright innards. There were groups of all sexes carrying beers and pizzas and there was no way they could all be from one family. One woman came out carrying a baby in front of her like some human shield against the virus. No doubt, that was not her intention but seriously!!! All this made me think, as we are cocooning our loved ones and trying our best to take care of our families, is there some ancient, sort of scruffy god that takes care of these people? Because, let’s face it, they somehow survive and thrive with some invisible Armour that protects them against life’s onslaughts. You know the type, they come through plagues, famines and all night parties unscathed and with a dumb resilience to keep going. It’s one of life’s great mysteries, my friends.

The Wraith-chapter fourteen

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on April 17, 2020
Posted in: Ghost. Leave a comment

         Jill sprang up in the bed. Her heart raced so fast she found it hard to breathe. The only light in the room came from the slit at the bottom of the door, and she waited for her eyes to adjust. Looking around the room, she picked out the familiar shapes of the furniture. Deciding it was safe enough; she swung her feet onto the floor and sat a moment to allow the spinning in her head to subside. She didn’t dare turn on the bedside lamp in case it alerted her family. The murmur of their voices had woken her, and she couldn’t face them, not yet.

   Her clothes were removed, so she slept in her underwear. The jeans and jumper she had worn were laid out at the bottom of her bed, so she didn’t have to search of something to wear. Once dressed, she crept to the window and looked down to the yard. Even in the darkness, she could pick out the outline of five cars. Her parents owned one of them, Joe another and more than likely, an assortment of aunts and cousins in the other two. No one would want to miss witnessing her misery, and even though she knew her thoughts were uncharitable, they were, she knew, true. She had always been the outsider in her extended family, the one most likely to cock things up, they said, and they were right. After Joe left, they arrived en-masse with suggestions of what she should do next. Despite tight smiles and words of wisdom, there was no mistaking the arched eyebrows, or knowing looks and comments, when they thought she was out of earshot. It came as a complete surprise to all of them when she inherited the house from her grandmother, and even though they warned against trying to go it alone, she ignored their advice. Oh, she proved them wrong, and managed to become self-sufficient, but at what price?

   The bedroom door groaned, and she held her breath, waiting for the expected footsteps, but there were none. Tiptoeing to the top of the stairs, she listened as voices drifted up, but she could not make out what they were saying. Bess, who was lying at the bottom of the stairs, got up when she saw her mistress and wagged her tail. Jill brought her finger to her lips, warning her to be quiet, and laughed at the action. She had come to think of the dog as her friend and expected her to understand everything she said or did. To her surprise, Bess lay back down. So far there was no sight of her pups, and Jill was grateful for this, as their frolics would have surely made her presence known to those gathered in the kitchen.

   Taking her coat from the rail in the hall, she crept outside, with Bess following at her heels. Her mother’s car was parked closest to the house and she saw in the light from the window, it was gleaming. Six years old and still in showroom condition, her mother always boasted. Jill frowned, recalling the home she had grown up in and the sterile condition of every room. A place for everything and everything in its place, was her mother’s mantra, and her house epitomised the neatness and order of her life. Even her husband, Jill’s father, had a role to play and she sometimes wondered how he bore her mother’s frigid rigidity, but it didn’t seem to bother him, and he remained the jovial and good-natured father she had always known. She shivered and pulled her coat tighter around her. The grass was coated with frost and it crackled beneath her feet as she made her way to the orchard. Here she could think without being disturbed. The trees would give her some shelter from the cold, and there was a little wooden bench where she could sit and think. She managed to keep her emotions under control since she had woken, but now, seated under the vast amphitheatre of stars, she broke down and sobbed. The dog seated beside her, moaned and nuzzled her face into Jill’s hands.

   “Oh, Bess, what am I going to do?” she stroked the soft fur. “They’ve taken my baby and I don’t even know if he’s alive or dead. Oh God, this is all my fault.”

Above her the heavens glowed brighter than before and she turned her face to the sky. Tears ran down her cheeks and soaked the collar of her jumper, as she silently prayed for help. The cold breeze whipped around the bare trees and carried with it the voice of her loved one.

   “The time is right,” it seemed to whisper, and Jill jumped up, when the words reached her.

   “Nana,” she called, as her eyes searched the darkness. “Nana, is that you?”

There was no one there, and nothing to answer her cry. Cursing her imagination, she walked through the trees, and could not help but notice the dog’s reaction. She seemed wary, as she sniffed the ground, and once or twice, a low growl started in her throat, but whatever it was she saw out there in the darkness was soon dismissed as non-threatening, and she resumed her foraging. Jill’s body shook from weeping, and she leant against one of the trunks for support. The orchard, that once seemed such a happy place, now hung with the stench of neglect and death. The earth beneath her feet was damp and the fallen leaves, that days before blazed with colour, were now slimy with rot.

   “There you are,” her mother’s voice startled her. “We wondered where you had got to.”

Her lips felt like ice when she brushed them on her daughter’s cheek, and Jill made no sign of protest as she linked her arm through hers and guided her back to the house.

   “Now you mustn’t blame yourself,” her mother said, and Jill knew what she meant was, there would be many others who would. “I’m sure Toby has just run off and is hiding somewhere. He’ll be home when he gets hungry, boys are like that.”

Jill stopped, and looked at her mother.

   “He hasn’t run away; someone has taken him.”

She could hardly believe how flippant her mother was being.

   “Well, this has been an upsetting time for both of you, and I have to admit, I wondered how well you were coping, with the split I mean.”

   “I know what you mean, mother,” Jill tried to remain calm. “I’m hardly likely to forget, am I?”

   “That’s what I mean,” her mother patted her hand. “Toby is feeling the loss of his father too, and probably crying out for attention. What better way to get it, than by running away and causing all this fuss?”

   “He did not run away,” Jill gritted her teeth. “And he has all the attention he needs. I spend every waking moment, outside of school, with him.”

   “But he needs the company of a man, is all I’m saying.” Her mother started to pull her towards the front door.

Jill no longer trusted herself to speak. If her mother’s nonchalant attitude was anything to go by, what chance did her son have, if the police took the same view?

   The warmth of the kitchen stung her cheeks.

   “Here she is,” her mother smiled at the sea of anxious faces, as though displaying something she had caught. “I found her wandering in the orchard.”

Jill was right in her assumptions. Two of her aunts, her mother’s sisters, rose to meet her. They were accompanied by their daughters, four of the most repressed creatures the world had ever seen, and they now stood beside their mothers, with the same sad, fixed smile. Jill understood none of them, especially her cousins, felt any pity for her, and they would derive a perverse pleasure from her distress. It was easy to imagine how Jesus felt, when they each placed a Judas kiss on her cheek. Her father stood behind her during their murmured assurances her son would be all right, and she was glad of the strength of his hand, as he stroked her back.

   Joe’s face was a mask of worry and pain, and she walked to him and held out her hand. Instead of taking it, he wrapped his arms around her, and she was once again enveloped in the familiar scent of his body.

   “We’ll find him,” his voice was hoarse with unshed tears. “I’m going to join in the search as soon as it gets light.”

   “Thank you,” she pulled away and looked around at her family. “I had a flat tire; I was only a few minutes late.”

The explanation dissolved in a fit of weeping and her father hurried to take her in his arms.

   “It’s not your fault, girl,” he said, hugging her so tight she struggled to breath. “It could have happened to anyone.”

   “But it happened to me, Dad,” she pushed him away, sat at the table and buried her face in her hands.

Outside in the yard, Bess howled and scraped at the front door.

   “I thought I told you to lock the dogs up!” Her mother glared at her husband.

   “I thought I did,” he walked out into the hall and opened the door.

Before he could stop her, Bess ran by him into the kitchen.

   “Oh, for goodness sake,” Jill heard her mother fussing, as the dog brushed by her, leaving traces of its coat on her expensive wool dress.

   “She’s all right,” Jill wiped her eyes and put her arm around the dog’s neck.

   “What possessed you to get three dogs?” her mother asked. “One is bad enough, but three?”

   “Now, Nora,” Jill looked at her father, surprised by the sternness of his tone. “Jill has enough to contend with, without you going on at her.”

   “I’m just saying,” her mother’s eyes blazed with anger. Never had he dared to answer her back, and in front of her sisters! It was too much, and she lost no time in letting him know. If by doing this, she transferred the attention back to her grieving daughter, then so be it. “If Jill had not had her mind on other things, none of this would have happened.”

  If her words were intended to shut him up, they had the opposite effect, and he rounded on her.

   “Talk sense, woman. If Toby has been kidnapped, it would have happened anyway, and no amount of watching him would have prevented that.”

   “Well,” his wife refused to be beaten. “If she,” she pointed at her daughter. “Had spent more time taking care of the things that needed doing, she would not have had a flat tire.”

   “You fucking bitch,” Jill jumped up and faced her mother.

Though aware of the gasps from her aunts and cousins, she continued.

   “What gives you the right to accuse me? It’s unlikely you would ever be voted mother of the year. Where were you, when I needed you?”

Turning to her father.

   “Dad, I asked her if I could move in with you for a while, until I could get myself sorted out, and do you know what she said?”

She knew by his reaction, and the way he looked at his wife, that he was unaware of this.

   “She said a child wouldn’t fit in with her lifestyle,” she glared at her mother. “Well, you won’t have to worry about it anymore, will you, mother? Toby might be dead for all we know, and still all you can think of is yourself. You make me sick.”

She ran from the room, out the front door and almost collided with the car pulling up outside. The headlights dazzled her, and she brought a hand to her face, to shield her eyes from the glare.

   “Jill,” Paul O’Farrell said anxiously as he climbed out. “Are you, all right?”

Instead of answering, she hurried over to him.

   “Is there any news?”

   “No, I’m afraid not, but we’re expanding the search. There are over two hundred volunteers, and we’ll start checking the barns and outbuilding at first light,” He looked up at the sky. “It won’t be long now.”

   “What time is it?”

   “After three, I told everyone to assemble at six a.m.”

The sound of the front door opening made her look around. Her father stood silhouetted in the light from the hall.

   “Is everything all right?” He asked.

   “Yes, Dad. This is Paul O’Farrell. He’s the detective in charge of the case.”

The two men shook hands.

   “No news, I’m afraid,” Paul said to her father.

   “It’s early days yet,” he answered, as though hoping the detective would confirm this.

When he did not, her father asked him in, but the offer was refused.

   “I have to go home,” Paul said. “I’m just going to have something to eat, before we start back on the search.”

   “Keep us informed,” her father shook his hand, before going back inside.

The door closed, and they were once again enveloped in darkness.

   “You should try and get some rest,” Paul said to her. “I know it’s not easy.”

   “There’s only twenty-four hours left,” she whispered, and unsure of what she meant, he moved closer. She looked up at him, and he could see how she struggled to contain herself. “That’s what they say, isn’t it? If a child is not found in the first thirty-six hours, then it’s usually too late.”

   “Ah, that’s just nonsense,” He tried to reassure her. “You watch too many detective shows. I’ve known people who’ve turned up months, and even years, after they have gone missing.”

   “Not children though, none of the children have been found.”

Instead of answering, he patted her back, before climbing in his car. His silence told her all she needed to know, and she waited until he was out of sight before going inside, to face the wrath of her mother’s wounded pride.