Death Cry-chapter five

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on May 26, 2020
Posted in: banshee, books, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Death Cry, Eerie Places, Fairies, Fantasy, fiction, folklore, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, harbinger of death, Haunted Houses, horror, Ireland's past, Irish folklore, legend, memories, Paranormal, passion, revenge. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Mary O Brien gaped in wonder at the man standing on her doorstep. It was not in her nature to be shy, but she was almost simpering at the unexpected visitor. He really was something out of the ordinary. He was tall, much taller than her, so he looked down into her eyes as he spoke. The voice addressing her was soft, caressing and she watched in fascination the movement of his wide, full lips and sighed at the words that dripped like honey from them.

   “Oh, I do beg your pardon,” she blushed; when she realised, he had finished speaking.

   “Not at all, dear Lady. Make no apologies to me. I was merely asking if you would have a room to let for a weary traveller?”

   “Oh,” she spluttered in confusion. “I don’t rent out rooms, Sir. This is a private house, but you could try the Inn.”

   “I was on my way there, but on passing your home, I noticed it was the finest in the village. I make no excuse that catching site of its lovely owner through a gap in the curtains, made me stop and act as bold as I now am.”

   “Dear me,” Mary blushed again. “But I must admit you’re being quite bold.”

   “Forgive me?” he smiled taking her hand and raising it to his lips. The kiss felt soft and the eyes looking up into hers were the brightest green she had ever seen. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”

   “There is no need,” she caught hold of him. “I mean…I’m sure I can’t let a gentleman such as you sleep at that Inn,” she cast a baleful eye across the village. “After all, I do have many spare rooms, and I’m sure my home would be more suited to you.”

   “You are too kind, dear lady and be sure I’ll pay you well,” with this he pulled a purse from his coat pocket and emptied a mass of silver coins into her hands.

   “Oh, but this is too much,” she gasped.

   “I insist,” he held up a hand. “And may I say it is no more than you are worth.”

He picked up the bag at his feet and waited for her to stand aside. Mary pocketed the thirty pieces of silver, stood back, and allowed the Devil to enter her house.

Hugh was surprised to find they had a visitor, and at his mother’s constant attention on the man. He was obviously rich, from his dress and manner. It had to be someone important if his mother was fussing so much. He had admitted on meeting him, the man was very charismatic, and the hand shaking his was cool, but strong.

   “Are you just passing through, Mr…?”

   “Tanas, Oliver Tanas.”

   “Dear me, how foolish I was not to ask your name,” Mary was mortified, and hoped he would not think her rude and uncouth like the other villagers.

   “Then we were both foolish for neither did I ask your name, dear lady. Though I admit I imagined it to be something saintly.

   “It’s Mary, Mary O Brien. Of course, you have met my son, Hugh, and I am afraid that is all there is in my family. I’m a widow, you see,” she had to let him know she was available. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, Mr Tanas, I’ll see if the girl has our supper ready.”

Hugh was left alone with him once his mother disappeared into the kitchen, and was put out at having to make conversation.

   “Do you like card games?” the man asked, and within minutes they were deep in conversation about the games of poker they had played.

Hugh spent most of his night’s playing cards, and this caused constant trouble with his mother. He was hopeless at the game, and there were many times when she had to pay his gambling debts.

   “Tell you the truth,” he mumbled to his new-found friend. “I lose more than I win.”

   “Perhaps, it’ll change for you. Let us play a few hands after supper.”

   “I’m afraid I can’t,” he shrugged. “I’ve arranged to play with some friends later.”

   “Well, never mind. Some other time, perhaps?”

   “Will you be here for long?”

   “A few weeks, I think.”

   “Are you staying locally?”

   “Why, dear boy, I’m staying here.”

   “You mean here. In this house?”

   “The very same.”

The news seemed to throw Hugh for a moment, and excusing himself, he followed his mother into the kitchen.

   “What’s the idea of having a stranger stay in this house?” he demanded. “I’m talking to you, mother.”

Grabbing his arm, she pulled him out of the servant girl’s hearing and hissed.

   “Listen to me, you little upstart. He’s rich and I want you to treat him well, understand?” She already had their mysterious visitor marked out as husband number two. “Look,” she fished in her pocket and withdrew some of the coins. “And there’s more where this came from. So, treat him well or else…” the threat was left hanging, as she swept past him and went back to her visitor.

   The supper was more elaborate than usual, though their visitor seemed to have little appetite.

   “Is the food not to your liking?” Mary asked.

   “It is delicious, I am sure, but my appetite is not what it was. I’ve recently recovered from an illness.”

   “Dear me, I hope it was nothing serious,” she felt his money slipping from her grasp.

   “Not at all, dear lady. I’m quite recovered, but still unable to eat much.”

   “I’m so glad to hear of your return to health. If there’s anything I can get for you do let me know.”

   “You are truly kind, but I’ll not trouble you for much. I shall be out all day so please do not prepare any food for me. I usually eat on my travels.”

   “What is it you do?” Hugh managed to get the question in before his mother.

   “I’m of independent means, but a scholar of sorts.”

   “What is it you study, Mr Tanas?” Mary was ecstatic. Independent means!

   “You could say the work of the Devil.”

Mary and Hugh looked at one another.

   “Let me explain,” their visitor laughed. “I believe my recent illness was brought about by unsavoury means.”

   “You mean you were cursed?” Mary gasped.

   “Precisely, and I’m not the only one. I have heard about the suffering in this village, and I believe the Devil’s work is being done here. If this is the case, I mean to root out this evil and put a stop to it at once.”

   “Oh, sir, how fortunate we are to have you here with us. I was saying only last evening, wasn’t I Hugh?” she slapped at her son’s elbow. “This place is cursed and I’m sure I know who the cause is as well,” she nodded at their visitor in a very conspiratorial way.

   “Then you’ll be of great service to me,” he smiled.

Hugh left his mother and her visitor deep in conversation. He felt good tonight. He was not sure if it was the fine supper he’d just eaten, or the two silver coins slipped into his hand before he’d left home by the man with a wink and a wish of good luck. Things were about to turn his way for once. Setting his cap at a jaunty angle, he spurred his horse forward and galloped away from the village.

   Mary O Brien’s visitor was proving to be as mysterious as he was handsome. He left the house each morning before she awoke and made his bed up before leaving. The room looked completely undisturbed. Curiosity drove her to check his wardrobe, and the clothes she found hanging there pleased her. Some of his suits were of the finest brocade and lace hung from beneath the cuffs. These were the clothes of a great gentleman. His dressing table also gave her great joy. On it were his comb, brush, and perfume bottles, all were fashioned in the finest silver, even the bottle tops. On that first morning, she waltzed around the room with happiness. This man was about to change her life forever. She took no time in spreading the word of his existence around the village, and the reason for his stay. There were many who listened in awe to her story, and as many more doubted such a paragon of virtue was truly among them. Night after night she paraded him for all to see. Jane O Regan was first on her list. Describing her to Oliver, as he insisted, she call him, as a poor unfortunate and in need of their charity. Jane was impressed and Mary preened herself, throwing her shoulders back in pride at the woman’s reaction. Once they were seated, he immediately enquired to the state of her health.

   “I’m well now, sir,” she blushed under his gaze, and hoped the heat of the fire would be blamed for the sudden redness.

   “Well,” Mary sniffed. “If you ask me, you’re lucky to be alive.”

   “What do you mean?”

   “With that Annie Ryan and her herbs poisoning half the village, you were lucky to survive.”

   “But Annie helped us to get well. She nursed us day and night. No one could be as kind as or more attentive than she.”

   “You lost your little one, didn’t you?”

   “I prefer not to speak of it,” Jane gazed down at her hands.

   “It is sad indeed, when one so young is robbed from us,” Oliver joined in the conversation.

Jane looked up.

   “What do you mean robbed?”

   “Let me explain, dear lady,” he patted her hands. “I was nearly lost to the terrible sickness you suffered from. Had it not been for the wisdom of my doctor, I might have succumbed to the same fate as your child. Luckily, he realised that evil doers among us were causing the sickness, and it was only through his intersession I was saved. Let us hope I can do the same for the many afflicted in this village.”

   “But…but,” Jane stuttered. “You cannot imagine for one moment Annie had anything to do with it? Why, I have known her since she was a baby? There’s not an ounce of harm in the child.”

   “As you wish,” he stood up to leave, and Mary hopped from her seat to join him.

Jane tried to make amends.

   “I’m not saying you’re wrong. I am sure you’re more knowledgeable on this subject than I. It’s just I fear you’re mistaken in choosing Annie as the culprit.”

   “Very well,” he smiled. “Time will tell.”

Jane held the door open and Mary swept past her with a face like thunder. The stranger stopped in the doorway to bid her goodnight.

   “I fear I have offended Mrs. O Brien and your good self in some way, but I don’t know what it is I’ve done.”

   “You’ve done nothing but be a good friend to one who’ll shortly be in need of one,” he donned his hat and reaching into his waistcoat pocket, withdrew a handful of coins. “A small gift,” he took her hand and placed the coin in her palm, closing her fingers around them. “From someone who will hopefully be worthy of your friendship in the future.”

   He left Jane standing open-mouthed in the doorway. The coins in her hands felt warm and she rushed to the table and let them fall onto the wood. There was a small fortune there. She could hardly believe it. Picking up each piece she studied it as if it might disappear at any moment. He had ensured, by his actions that Jane and her family would survive the coming winter. She would have to find some way to repay him for his generosity. His clothes were of the finest materials. So, nothing she could make for him would be worthy, but she’d find a way.

Within a week Oliver Tanas was well known throughout the village, not only for his generosity and wit, but also for his preaching about witchcraft. In those dark times, when ignorance and superstition combined and made a very potent mixture, there were many who believed his words as anything else was beyond their understanding. They were simple folk, mostly hill farmers. They knew little of life outside their community and lived by way of the land. The winter brought with it the cold, the spring was for planting, the summer for heat and the autumn for ploughing. They had few enemies, hidden away as they were in that God-forsaken place and the appearance of this man; this saviour seemed too good to be true. Here was someone who understood the sickness, could root out the cause of it and drive it from the land.

Pat O Malley shook his head in wonder. How anyone could be stupid enough to believe what the man was saying was beyond him. He was on his way home from the Inn, where Oliver was preaching, surrounded as usual by the red-faced drinkers, who hung onto his every word.

   “Your misfortunes were caused by witchcraft,” Oliver hollered. “The sickness is a curse on your house, sent from someone you know. It could be a neighbour, even one you regard as a friend, but trust me, my friends, you are cursed.”

   “Bullshit.”

The crowd stopped their mumbled agreements and parted so Oliver could see who had uttered such profanity.

   “Were you addressing me, Sir?”

   “I was, Sir,” Pat stood, and made a mocking bow.

   “Perhaps, you’d care to repeat that?”

   “I said bullshit.”

There were gasps from the room, and many smiled in anticipation of the coming fight.

   “You are, of course, entitled to your opinion, but perhaps you’d enhance it somewhat further so I might understand?”

Pat laughed in his face, but was stopped by the man calling for drinks for the house Asking Pat to join him at his table, he did so out of curiosity, but refused to accept a drink, preferring to buy his own.

   “You seem very set in your ways,” Oliver smiled at him. “I admire a man who sticks to his opinions.”

   “I know the sickness was brought about by the heat, nothing more. The summer was too hot.”

   “Surely it was as hot in the other villages?”

   “We have different wells, a different water supply than the others. It may well have been the sickness came from there.”

   “You find it impossible that I am right, this village was cursed? That there are many who do the Devil’s work?”

   “Oh, I believe in the Devil,” Pat fixed him with an angry stare. “And speaking of the Devil’s work, what may I ask, have you to gain from your preaching?”

   “Nothing,” Oliver raised his hands. “Nothing at all. I survived a sickness such as this and have made it my life’s work to root out all who’d do such harm.”

   “Well, you’ve come to the wrong place,” Pat emptied his ale mug and stood. “Once the winter sets in it’ll put an end to all this sickness. If I were you, I would not waste my time with these simple folks. It could do more damage than good.”

   “As you say, it’s my time and what I choose to do with it, is for me to decide.”

Pat was almost out the door when the voice stopped him.

   “Perhaps you protest so much, because you fear for someone you know.”

He hesitated, wanting to go back and smash the milksop in the face, but decided against it. It was best not to draw too much attention. He heard the rumours and did not want to add fuel to the flames. They caused him to lay awake night after night worrying about Annie, aware once Mary O Brien had a hand in what was going on, she would not be safe. He had not seen her in over a week and there was no sign of the gypsies either. He even considered going to her, asking her to leave this place with him. They could set up somewhere else. Even if she did not love him, he loved her enough for the two of them and in time…. Things would have to be sorted soon. There was rumours the village would be put into quarantine and no one would be allowed in or out. He planned to take his cart into the nearest town for supplies in a couple of days, but he would leave sooner. Food was running short, and those recovering from the sickness were becoming more demanding in the quest for delicacies. He would set out the next morning. His assistant could manage the shop, and once he sold the new supplies, he would have enough money to start anew somewhere else. He felt better at having come to the decision. Once he was back from the town he would go to Annie, ask her to marry him and keep her safe forever. He sniffed the air as he walked. It had the hint of frost in it and it would not be long before the snows came. There were many arrangements to make for his trip the next day, and a sleepy assistant was woken and told of his plan. Pat went to bed that night a much happier man. In just a short time he might be happier still if Annie accepted his proposal. He hated leaving her now, especially at such a time of unrest, but it was only for two weeks.

Death Cry-chapter four

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on May 25, 2020
Posted in: banshee, birdsong, hope faith God whispers heaven, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, Fairies, Fantasy, fiction, folklore, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, harbinger of death, Haunted Houses, horror, Ireland's past, Irish folklore, legend, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, screams, twlight, wailing cry, Witchcraft, Witches, wraiths, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Annie found him waiting for her as soon as she fell asleep. At first, she assumed he was the mysterious lover foretold to her by Roma. She went to him willingly: allowing herself to sink into his arms and sighed at his whispered promises. She felt his hands move over her body, sending shivers of anticipation into her core. She moaned aloud in her sleep and moved with him. His tongue flicked across her cheek and she parted her lips and allowed him to enter her mouth. His words seemed strange to her; his promises confusing. She felt him slip from her side and crawl on top of her. His voice was rasping, entreating her to give him what he wanted, but these were not the words of a lover. She had to get away, to wake up. Her sleep was deeper than it had ever been, and she cried out in terror, as the hands roaming her body dug deeper. She felt his nails scoring her skin and the breath upon her face smelled of the tomb.

   “Annie,” it was her mother’s voice. “Annie, child, come back. This is not the way, turn back.”

   “Mamma, Mamma, help me.”

   “Not me, child,” her mother voice was fading. “But one much higher. Call out to him for protection.”

   “Sweet Jesus, help me.”

No sooner had she uttered these words then she felt the weight lifting from her. She fought her way out from the sleep and sprang up in the bed. The room was filled with an angry roaring. Everything spun before her eyes. What little clothes she had danced around her, caught in some terrible vortex. The air was freezing, as the wind turned faster and faster. She tried to get away from it, shuffling backwards in the bed until her body met the unresisting headboard. The wind moved with her, threatening to pull her into its swirling mass. The roaring died down and was replaced by a wailing and sobbing. She held fast to the headboard, praying aloud to God to save her.

   “Annie, Annie.”

Her sisters were pounding on her door. It opened slightly, but the pressure of the wind pushed it closed again.

   “Rose, Dora,” she screamed above the noise. “Go back to bed. Don’t come in here.”

   “Annie, I’m frightened,” Dora called, and the door opened a fraction as the children pushed against it.

Annie knew if they came inside, she would lose them forever. Holding tightly to the headboard, she stood. She did not know how she knew what to do, what to say, but she held her arms wide and called.

   “Before me, Michael, behind me, Gabriel, to my right, Raphael, to my left, Uriel. Guardians of the soul, protectors of the light, help me.”

   A dazzling white light shot through her darkened window and pushed the vortex aside. It spread wider until it filled each corner of the room. The screams faded with the last of the wind, and Annie shielded her eyes against the glare. She thought she saw shadowy figures within the light, but it was not possible to be sure. It was like looking at the sun, it hurt her eyes, so she scrambled beneath the covers for protection. She sensed the light fading and screamed when she felt the weight on her again.

   “Annie, Annie.”

It was her sisters, trying to tug the covers from her grasp.

   “Annie, what happened, what’s wrong?”

She peeped up at the two anxious faces and struggled to sit up. She was trembling so badly her teeth chattered, and she was glad of the warmth of their bodies, as they joined her in the bed.

   “Tell us, Annie,” Rose looked at her in wonder. “What happened?”

She tried to make light of what was the most frightening experience of her life.

   “It was the wind, nothing more. I left the window open and the wind came in.”

   “It must have been a big wind,” Rose gazed around the room, at the clothing littering the floor and the overturned vase of flowers.

   “Yes, it was,” Annie held them close. “And cold as well,” she tried to excuse her shivering and the goose pimples that rose on her arms.

   Like all children they accepted their big sister’s answer and were soon asleep. Annie lay awake for the rest of the night. Though her eyes felt heavy from the want of sleep, she could not risk having the dream again. Nor could she risk its aftermath.

They set off for Meg’s cottage at first light, gathering herbs, roots, and berries along the way. She was glad to find her basket waiting for her on the doorstep and a freshly killed rabbit inside. Roma was as good as her word, and the rabbit would make a tasty stew. Annie was anxious to see Meg and hear what she would make of her nightmare. Meg knew the meaning of everything, each sign and omen. She could foretell the coming of snow days before it arrived or smell the onset of the rains. The children reached the cottage first, and there was the usual flurry of greetings and kisses before they rambled off to play. Annie nodded to Meg and placed her basket on the tabletop, then fetched the pestle and mortar for the grinding. Meg worked alongside her for a few minutes, picking the needed herbs and roots from the basket and throwing them into the mortar. Annie beat at the ingredients hard, and they were soon reduced to a fine powder.

   “I’d pity the poor soul who gets in your way this day.”

Annie noticed Meg looking into the mortar.

   “Sorry, Meg. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

   “Aye, I noticed, child. What was it kept you up?” Meg had not failed to notice Annie’s red-rimmed eyes, nor the pallor of her skin.

   “I had a bad dream, that’s all.”

Meg felt the cold fingers close round her heart; so, it was starting. This terrible blackness she had felt approaching.

   “Come away, child,” she caught Annie’s hand in mid-air, as she raised it to crush a new batch of herbs. “Come, sit by the fire and we’ll talk awhile.”

Annie allowed herself to be led to the chair. She was glad of the heat from the fire, as she found it hard to get warm since her fright. Meg sat opposite and was quiet for a while gazing into the leaping flames.

   “Tell me about this dream, child.”

   “It wasn’t just the dream,” Annie clasped her hands in her lap.” But what happened afterwards.”

Meg listened to the strange tale as though it was a common, everyday occurrence. When Annie finished, she crossed herself and mumbled a prayer that Annie was unable to make out.

   “Listen to me, child. For the hours of the day are short and the nights from now on will be endless. We have much work to do, to stop what’s about to happen,” she held up a hand to stop Annie’s questions. “The names you evoked last night were the most powerful of all. The four guardians of the soul came to your aid, with Michael as their leader. He is the warrior and the one most feared by the Dark One. Aye,” she answered Annie’s unasked question. “That’s who you saw in your dream. The one cast out and who fell from heaven. He has roamed this earth, this Hell since time began. His quest to gain as much power as God and bring about the destruction of mankind. He will not rest until he does so, and its man himself who aids his quest. Those who grasp at power, who lust for riches are his aids and feed his hunger. He has sensed the great goodness and power that’s in you and wishes to make it his own. You must learn to resist it. Fight him as fearlessly as Michael did and still does. He, along with all the hosts of angels, will be your allies and through him you’ll win the eternal struggle.”

   “I’m frightened, Meg, not so much for myself, but for my sisters. What if he tries to hurt them, how will I protect them?”

   “It’s he who plants such doubts in your mind. Pay him no heed and trust in what is right. You knew the exact words to say to save yourself last night. These came from God and will continue to do so.”

   “I’m only a girl. How can I take on the forces of darkness?”

   “When he comes to you again with all his whispered promises tell him you want none of him. To be away and leave you in peace.”

Annie looked at her wide-eyed. Meg sounded as though she was shooing away an unsuitable suitor rather than the Devil.

   “Come now,” Meg rose stiffly. “There’s much work to be done in helping those who are in need.”

   Annie joined her at the table, and they spent the next few hours mixing and packing the herbs. Annie told her as they worked, about the visit from the O Brien’s and the offer of marriage. She was glad her sisters were not around to hear Meg’s curses and ranting at the news. She also told her of Roma and her children and the villager’s hatred of them.

   “Well, God between them and all harm,” Meg sighed. “But they’re welcome to any spare food I have, and you tell them so.”

Annie promised she would, and it was well into the afternoon when she set off with her basket. She took great care to avoid running into the O Brien’s on her travels. The reception she received from the villagers was the same as before, with only Jane O Regan inviting her in. There were two more deaths overnight and Jane whispered to her of the rumours that were doing the rounds.

   “They say we’ve been cursed,” Jane said, looking about the room as if in dread of someone overhearing. “They say it’s those gypsies who are camped down in the hollow.”

   “What nonsense. Why only last night I spoke to them and found them to be lovely, gentle folk. It really is all nonsense.”

   “Still,” Jane sniffed. “The sickness has to come from somewhere and there’s none in the other villages.”

Annie knew it was useless to argue any further with her and after exchanging a few pleasantries, she set off for home. She was almost on the outskirts of the village when she heard her name being called. She turned to find Pat O Malley hurrying towards her.

   “Have you heard the rumours?”

   “Yes, but they’re nonsense. Those people wouldn’t harm a fly.”

   “There’s mischief afoot. Mark my words,” he took her by the elbow and led her towards a thicket of bushes. “Only last night I saw that old witch Mary O Brien coming out of Jane’s house and her with a smile on her like the cat that’s been at the cream. She’s up to no good, that one.”

   “Their horse lost a shoe,” she explained about the gypsies. “They’ve no money to replace it and the man’s sick.”

   “Send them to me. I’ll give them enough to shoe the horse and have them on their way before any harm befalls them.”

   “I will,” she picked up her skirts and made ready to run. She wanted to get home and tell Meg of what was happening and warn Roma as well.

   “Thank you, Pat. You’re a good man,” she reached up and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll not forget your kindness.”

He was still standing with his hand to his cheek, when she reached the edge of the forest and turned to wave at him.

It was dark and the forest, that once seemed such a friendly, familiar place, frightened her. The call of the night owl, who had recently risen from his slumber made her jump. The small scurrying from the bushes as she walked along were now transformed into the terrifying scratching of some great horned demon, who she expected at any moment, to rise and block her path. Even the slight, evening breeze skimming the treetops sounded like thunder in her ears. Hugging her shawl tighter around her, she hurried on. Once or twice, she thought she heard her name being called and stopped to listen. The first time she dismissed it as her imagination, but the second time… She stood still, hardly daring to breathe, as it came again, louder this time.

   “Annie, Annie.”

   “Mamma?” she called, looking desperately around her. “Mamma, is that you?”

   “Annie, Annie, child.”

The voice was stronger now. She saw a dark figure silhouetted in a clearing among the trees.

   “Mamma,” was it her mother? She had somehow come back to her, though every fibre of her being cried out it was not; could not be her mother, she did not care. She wanted so much to believe it was true. That her mother had somehow survived the grave and come back

   “Mamma,” she dropped her basket and ran towards the figure, tears streaming down her face.

   A hand reached out from the dark, grabbed her skirt and pulled her back with such force she fell against a tree trunk, winded.

   “Be gone, vile creature,” Meg waved her stick towards the figure. “Leave this child in peace.”

The figure sighed Annie’s name once more before it faded into mist.

   “Come, child,” Meg helped Annie to stand. “Let’s go home.”

 Annie was unaware of the walk to Meg’s cottage or the tender words meant to soothe her. It was not until she was seated by the fire and had drunk one of Meg’s cures for the vapours, that it hit her.

   “My God,” her hand shook as she handed the cup to Meg. “What’s happening to me; what was it, that thing out there, in the forest?”

   “A demon sent to lure you away. He’ll stop at nothing to gain your soul.”

   “Oh, Meg,” Annie started to sob. “Just for a moment…”

   “I know child. I know,” Meg put her arms around her.

   “I can’t fight him. I’m just not strong enough.”

   “We’ll fight him together. He is no stranger to me. You can stay here until you learn the way, until you are stronger.”

Meg had put Rose and Dora to bed. She prepared a sleeping draught for Annie. This would ensure she would have no dreams that night. The herbs contained within the draught would soothe her mind and still her thoughts and he would not find her waiting for him.

Annie was led to bed as the draught took effect. She was unaware of her shoes being slipped from her feet and did not feel the pillow when her head touched it. Meg stayed awake for most of the night. Fashioning crosses from dried reeds, she hung them from every opening in the cottage. Each was put in place with a small bundle of herbs attached to it and a prayer added to form an invisible barrier. Throughout the night, Meg poured over the many books and writings she had inherited from her mother. Refreshing the words of protection that were still clear in her mind as the day she first heard them, but she found comfort in reading them again. There was much to learn and little time. She cursed herself for not teaching Annie of these things sooner, but in truth, she had not realised how strong the child’s power had grown and how needful she’d be of this protection. She piled sods of turf on the fire trying to distil the gloom and the cold circling her. Dark shadows, thrown by the flames, danced across the walls and she lit a few more candles. She knew he was outside, prowling around the cottage. She heard his voice as she had done years before and brushed aside his promises of youth, of riches, of eternal life. When he tired of entreating her, he sent more powerful voices. She heard the soft voice of her mother. It told her to heed him, to do as he said, and they would be together again. Its strange Meg thought, as she brushed aside a tear, how a voice lost to her for over forty years could stir her heartstrings as though it were yesterday.

   “God grant you peace, poor spirit,” she prayed, and the words whispering in her ears echoed away into a mournful cry.

She knew the voice was not that of her mother’s. The Dark One was using some lost soul to imitate the sweet sound in the same way he had done to Annie.

   She was to have no rest that night. Angry, at what he saw as her meddling, he sent demon after demon to torment her. Tiny balls of flame leaped from the fire and turned to hideous snarling beasts that reached out sharp claws and tried to scratch her. The shadows lengthened on the floor as small black shapes crept from between the cracks in the walls and flew, turning into giant bats, their teeth dripping with blood. They hissed and swooped around her, their wings snapping like whips at her face. Still she prayed, never ceasing, allowing nothing to stop her in her mission to defeat the Dark One. It was only with the coming of dawn the torment stopped, and she felt him moving away.

He had not succeeded that night, but he was no fool. He knew what he was up against in the old woman. There were many others not as strong, who would easily succumb to his promises, and they were not so far away. The birdsong irritated him; the light slanting through the trees blinded him. He would rest now and allow those of his legions who worked by day to do his bidding. He belonged to the night and would need to gather strength for the task ahead. For he was about to do something he had not done in centuries; he was about to take on human form.

Death Cry-chapter three

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on May 24, 2020
Posted in: banshee, birdsong, hope faith God whispers heaven, books, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Death Cry, Eerie Places, Fairies, Fantasy, fiction, folklore, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, harbinger of death, Haunted Houses, horror, Ireland's past, Irish folklore, legend, memories, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, wailing cry, Witchcraft, Witches, wraiths, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Annie spent three days nursing Jane and her children. The children recovered quickly. Jane, though still quite weak and depleted by her suffering, was no longer as helpless as she had been, and Annie was desperate to get home. She missed her sisters, and the worry of their absence was more draining than the actual nursing. Jane was sorry to see her go and there were tearful farewells and kisses before she managed to tear herself away.

It felt good to be back in the forest. The air smelt fresh and sweet and the birdsong lulled her as she walked. The soft muted trot of horse hooves upon grass made her turn, and she was surprised to see the Squire ambling towards her.

   “Good day, Miss Ryan,” he raised his hat.

   “Squire,” she nodded, as way of both greeting and farewell.

   “Come now, Miss Ryan,” he rode up beside her, his boots almost flush against her face. “Will you not stop and pass the time of day with me?”

   “I’m in a hurry, sir. I’ve been away from home these past four days, and I’m anxious to be reunited with my sisters.”

She reached out and pushed against the mare’s damp hair. The horse was so close she was afraid it would knock her.

   “Then, I’ll walk with you,” he slid the foot nearest to her from the stirrup, and was about to dismount, when she managed to get past the horse.

   “Don’t bother. I’m really in a hurry,” she was off and running through the ferns bordering the forest. She dreaded the Squire. At the last Harvest festival, she had to smack his face for being too familiar. He vowed revenge on her, but nothing was forthcoming. She told her mother all about the affair, and a look of fear had crossed her face, but this was soon replaced by anger, as she cursed his cheek at touching her child.

   Annie was running as fast as the terrain would allow. She picked up her skirts and held the basket above the ferns to stop it snagging and pulling her back. It was slow going, and she was sweating from the effort, but terror spurred her onwards. She was still close enough to hear his parting words and though she did not turn around, she knew he was angry.

   “Take care in the forest, Miss Ryan. It’s dark enough to hide the Devil himself.”

It was a relief to be free of the ferns and out among the trees. It was easier to run here, and the many roots and gnarled trees twisted by age, made riding dangerous. He would not dare follow her.

   Dora was the first to see her, as she made her way towards Meg’s cottage.

   “Annie,” the child hurled herself at her sister’s waist.

   “Let me go,” she laughed, pulling free.

   “Oh, Annie, I thought you’d gone away forever.”

   “You silly goose. It has only been three days. You know I’d never leave you.”

   “Swear,” the child looked doubtful.

   “I swear. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

   “Oh, no, Annie please do not.” 

   “Don’t what?”

   “Don’t hope to die.”

   “Then I won’t,” sudden cold clawed at her skin.

   “Annie,” Rose ran from the cottage, and Meg hobbled behind in her wake.

There were the usual questions about the village and the sickness. Annie answered as best she could, and though she was safe and back with her family, Dora’s fear seemed to mar her homecoming. Up to now the child had shown no signs of having the gift. Rose certainly did not have it. Perhaps it was just the worry of being parted from her made Dora so frightened?

After saying goodbye to Meg and promising to return the next day, they set off for home. The children skipped beside her, and Annie carried the newly christened cat, Blackie in her basket. Meg brought him to her cottage aware Annie might be away for days, and he now curled contentedly at the bottom of the basket, not at all bothered by the motion. Her cottage looked good when she spied it through the trees. It was not a palace and its exterior gave no hint of the happiness that had once been within its walls, but it was home. The gate creaked, as she pushed against it. It had grown stiff in the few short days she had been away. She stopped for a moment to take in the garden. Weeds grew wild in the hedgerows and wallflowers and ivy fought for a place on the front walls. The roof did not look too sturdy either. It arched at each gable end and seemed to swoon in the middle. She would have to get help in raising the thatch, before winter set in. The inside smelt familiar when she opened the door. It was the smell of turf, dried herbs, and old clothes. It smelt of her mother’s rosewater and the wooden carvings of her father. For a moment, the loneliness threatened to overwhelm her, as the wound of their loss was still open and very raw. 

   The children had eaten at Meg’s, so she set about cleaning the rooms. It was surprising how much dust gathered in the few days. When everything was once again in order, she called the children in from the garden. Amid howls of protest and chases around the kitchen, she managed to bath both and get them into clean clothing. Meg allowed them to run wild, and even sleep in their clothes. This would do them no harm for a few days, but it was not Annie’s way. While the children brushed their hair in front of the blazing fire, Annie washed the dirty clothes. She smiled, as they fanned their hair trying to dry it. Rose’s was the same colour as her own and turned gold in the light of the flames. Dora’s was like her mothers, almost white, fine, and easy to dry.

   Annie was pegging out the washing when she heard footsteps and voices approaching from the forest. They rarely had visitors, and then only to order wood for the winter, or some piece of furniture from her father. She waited in trepidation. When they finally emerged from the trees, she groaned.

   “Good day to you, cousin,” Mary O Brien was panting from the exertion of the walk from the village. She was used to a horse and cart, but that was of no use in the forest. Her son, Hugh was in tow, and she stood resting a hand on his arm and fanning her face with a white lace handkerchief.

   “Quite warm, don’t you think,” she gasped. “For the time of year?”

Annie did not think so. In fact, it’d grown even colder in the last few days, and now the air was decidedly frosty.

   “Won’t you come in, sit awhile and rest?” Annie asked.

   “Thank you, dear,” Mary pushed her son away, in her hurry to get inside.

Annie saw how her eyes took in the front of the cottage and heard the sniff of disapproval. Mary had to bend to get inside, for she was as tall as she was thin.

   “Well, now, this is nice,” the elaborate carvings on the chairs and the general tidiness of the cottage pleased her. She sat beside the fire and motioned to her son to sit opposite her.

   “Would you like a cool drink?” Annie asked.

   “Buttermilk would be fine,” Mary smiled again, and Annie could not help thinking of a wolf.

A few minutes passed in silence as she poured the milk, and her hands shook as she handed a cup to each of them.

   “My, that bread smells delicious.”

Mary was referring to the two loaves baking on a griddle.

   “Oh, would you like some?”

   “Yes, my dear that would be lovely. Wouldn’t it Hugh?”

He shrugged his shoulders. Annie wrapped a cloth around the griddle and carried it to the table. The bread was hot and hard to cut, and the butter melted as soon as it touched it and dripped down the sides. Nevertheless, she handed them both a plate and watched as they bit into the soft dough. Butter trickled down their chins. It was lucky the children had wandered off and were not there to witness the sight. It was funny to see Mary try to hold onto the cup, plate, and dab at her chin at the same time.

   “This is really quite delicious,” she beamed at Annie. “You’re such a good cook. Isn’t she Hugh?”

   “Doesn’t take much know how to bake bread.”

   “He’s spoiled you see, my dear,” she tried to cover up for her son’s bad manners. “I’ve always been known for my cooking.”

Hugh almost choked on the bread, and his mother slapped his back to still his spasm of coughing.

   “Dear me, what a to-do,” she thanked Annie for the proffered cup of water.

When the panic was over, and Hugh’s face was returning to a more normal colour, Mary stated her business.

   “Bring a chair over here,” she pointed to a spot beside her and Annie had no choice but to do as she was told.

It was strange sitting beside Mary. She always seemed so aloof, so fancy compared to the other women in the village, and Annie felt tongue-tied in her presence.

   “I’m not sure if your dear mother ever mentioned this to you but…”

Annie held her breath and waited.

   “It was always her wish and mine,” Mary added. “That one day, you and dear Hugh.” She leant across and patted his hand. “Would make a match.”

At this, she sat back contentedly and waited for what she expected as Annie gushing words of thanks, instead…

   “I think you must be mistaken, Mrs. O Brien.”

   “What did you say?”

   “I said you are mistaken. My mother wouldn’t wish for me to marry your son.”

   “Not want you to marry my son. Why any woman in her right mind would want to marry my Hugh. Why not may I ask?”

   “I don’t love him.”

 Annie looked across at Hugh, who seemed not at all put out by her refusal and shuddered. Had she not known of his reputation for cruelty and misuse of women, it would have been easy to read in his long, bovine face. The features were idiot-looking, but it was not this that gave cause for alarm. It was his dark, beady, crow-like eyes and carnivorous mouth. Annie turned back to Mary, who was by now, glaring at her.

   “I’m sure you’re mistaken.”

   “Why, you wicked, ungrateful, child,” Mary struggled out of the chair and motioned to her son to do the same. “You’ll never have an offer as good as this again.”

   “I had no intention of insulting you. But I’ve no wish to marry anyone at this time.”

   “I’ve heard enough,” Mary’s push almost knocked her over. “I’ll make you pay for your folly, Miss.”

With this she stormed outside. Hugh stood awkwardly holding onto the cup and plate, and Annie was forced to take them from his outstretched hands.

   “I’m sorry, Hugh.”

   “Don’t care,” he sneered.

She noticed, he dribbled as he spoke, and she followed him and watched the two retreating figures. Mary worked herself into a terrible temper. She was gesturing back towards the cottage, and Annie drew back into the shadows. Mary was quite red-faced, but Hugh just shrugged his shoulders, and this seemed to enrage his mother even more. Twice she struck out at him before they were lost from view, and Annie knew there would be hell to pay, once he got home.

The encounter left her quite shaken. She knew her mother never harboured such thoughts, and Mary’s only reason for the offer of marriage was to get her hands on the cottage and the adjoining fields. Even the idea of marrying Hugh was disgusting. Imagine, she cringed, having that lump slobbering all over me, ugh. She would try and put it out of her mind. There was little chance of her running into those two in the coming weeks.

    “Annie, Annie,” her sisters came crashing through the door. “Look who we found.”

They had two ragged children in tow. The ones from the gypsy camp, in the hollow. They were tiny, no more then three or four years old. Bending down, she asked.

   “Are you hungry?”

They nodded in unison, eyeing the bread still sitting on the table.

   “Well, sit down and I’ll get you something to eat.”

The smaller one, Lily, could hardly see above the table and Paul the older one, but only by an inch, was the same. To save them embarrassment, Annie suggested they sit by the fire. She placed cold strips of mutton on the fresh bread and handed one to each of the children. Rose and Dora, though not hungry, would not want to be left out. This was all washed down with mugs of milk, and Annie’s heart sang, when she saw the colour coming to the malnourished cheeks and the milky moustaches being wiped away with the backs of their hands. Once fed, Paul was a hive of information. He told them stories about their travels and all the wonderful places they had seen. Of the work his Dadda did shoeing horses and mending pots. These quietly lisped stories were the stuff of imagination, for Annie knew had they been true, these children would be better fed. But he was funny and once he made them laugh, there was no stopping him, even if his language was quite strong at times. Annie knew he didn’t realise what he was saying, and the rather colourful words were overheard around the campfires. She also knew her sisters would go to bed that night dreaming of far-away places and wanting to live in a caravan. It was a welcome relief to have the cottage filled with childish banter and laughter.

   There was a loud knocking on the door and Annie hushed them and went to answer it. A woman with a peddler tray strapped to her front and loaded down with herbs and charms stood outside.

   “Sorry to trouble you, Miss,” she bowed. “I’ve heard of your loss and I’d not want to disturb you, but I’m out of my mind with worry. My two young ones wondered off and I’ve not seen hide or hair of them for hours.”

   “It’s all right,” Annie stepped back and motioned the woman to enter.

She seemed stunned by the suggestion and stood looking at Annie for a moment. Seeming to like what she saw, she walked by her.

   “Why you two, bold things,” were her first words when she entered the cottage and caught sight of her children. “You had me worried sick,” she hoisted the heavy tray from her shoulders and dropped it onto a chair. She was crying and laughing, as she kissed the wriggling children.

   “God bless you; Miss, for keeping them safe. There’s not many would do the same for our kind.”

   “I’m glad I could help. Would you like a cup of buttermilk?”

The woman had the same sunken, pallid cheeks as the children.

   “I’d not like to bother you, Miss,” she went to pick up the tray, but Annie noticed her sidelong glance at the second loaf of bread.

   “It’s no bother. I’d be glad of the company and the children have already eaten.”

   “Well,” she made a great show of indecision. “If you’re really sure you can afford it. I’d be glad of a sup.”

Annie prepared the same meal for the woman as she had for the children but added a slice more. The children, aware the adults were settling down to talk, scampered out the door. She sat opposite the woman and tried not to watch her eat, gazing into the fire instead.

   “You’re a fine-looking young woman,” the gypsy spoke. “And kind of heart as well.”

Annie turned towards her, blushing.

   “But there’s one that means to cause you great harm.”

Her words made Annie grow cold.

   “You’re not the only one with the sight, you know. I have it; my mother and my grandmother had it also,” she shuffled forward in her chair and placed the empty plate at her feet. “Aye, it can be a curse at times.”

   “Yes, I know what you mean.”

   “Sure, enough you do,” she nodded. “It can be more a hindrance than a help; allowing us to see the darkness within others.”

Annie knew what she was talking about and the urge that made her shy away from what seemed a friendly, kind soul. But, deep inside she saw the blackness, the greed, and the ability to cause harm. It always seemed like a nest of black worms pulsating within the person and made her want to retch.

   They sat and talked for hours, while the children played outside. Roma, as the woman was called, told Annie the true stories of their wonderings. Of the cold reception they received in each village. Of being stoned and turned away by many they came across.

   “I’d leave this place in a minute,” she whispered. “But the horse cast a shoe and my husband can’t find work to replace it. Now he has gone down with the sickness, and there’s not one who’ll buy from me,” she looked towards her tray of charms.

   “It’s the sickness,” Annie assured her. “It’s making people suspicious of newcomers.”

   “Aye that may well be, but how am I to feed my family, and how in God’s name are we to get away from here?”

   “I know nothing about horseshoes, but there’s plenty of food here.”

With this, Annie started to fill her basket with vegetables and the remains of the loaf of bread. Pouring some flour into a piece of cloth, she placed this in the basket as well. She returned from the cold store with a piece of salted bacon and put it on top of the pile. Picking up a few bundles of the dried herbs, she instructed Roma how to use them.

   “If he’s strong, He’ll recover in no time,” she promised.

   “Oh, he’s always been strong,” Roma said. “That’s why it’s so unusual for him to be struck down like this.”

   “Will you be able to manage all this?” she pointed towards Roma’s tray and the heavy basket.

The woman looked from Annie to the food and back again.

   “I can’t pay you for this.”

   “Say a prayer for me. That is all the payment I need,” Annie went to the door and called to the children. “Rose will help you part of the way, and it’s not far.”

The children were happy to be of assistance, and soon Rose and Paul were struggling out the door under the weight of the heavy basket.

   “I’ll return your basket in the morning,” Roma smiled. “God bless you and keep you safe.” As an afterthought, she took one of the charms from her tray. A bright, green enamel four leaved clover, and pinned it to the front of Annie’s dress.

   “It’ll bring you luck and your hearts desires,” Roma winked.

   “I could do with the luck. But I’ve no time for a man at the present.”

   “That may be, but I see one in your future.”

Annie waved to them until they were out of sight. Roma was amazed at Annie’s kindness. It was not often she met one so beautiful and kind. Had it been any other time, she would have counted herself lucky to have made a friend, but not now? Not when the shadows were lengthening across the land and the Dark One was abroad. She sensed his presence. He was on the prowl, and in search of one such as Annie. Roma was powerful enough to resist his whispered promises and words of endearment, having been taught to do so by her mother, but whom did that young woman have, and who’d steer her in the right direction if he sought her out? She sensed the power was strong in Annie, and what joy he’d have in corrupting such innocence. She would do whatever she could to protect the child and maybe, with enough prayer, he would pass by this place and leave them in peace. But she knew in her heart this would not be the case. Ignorance and suspicion were his appetisers, and he was hungry for a feast. She felt his evil flow over her as strongly as the wind ruffling her hair. He was here; moving closer to this place, and only God himself had the power to stop him. She muttered a prayer of protection for her family, for herself and for Annie.

As Annie predicted her sisters were full of talk of gypsies and caravans, as she tucked them in that night. When they were finally asleep, she washed herself before the fire. Standing in the old wooden tub, she rubbed herself down with a soft cloth. She shivered, remembering Roma’s words of a lover who would soon appear, and then smiled at such nonsense. What time had she for a lover? There was work to be done, and her sisters to care for. She gazed towards the dark window. The winter was drawing in; the nights would soon be longer and colder, and it was a bad time to feel so alone.

Outside the trees and ferns parted before him. The wind tossed and rolled at his feet, but all nature abhorred him. His was the power of centuries past and his search never ending. The need for power was as strong now as the day he had been cast down. His journey would continue long after he left this place and well into the future, but for now, he would be content with what lay within those walls, a power stronger than he felt in years. Given to a young girl too foolish to know its worth, and too pure to desire all it could give. He would take it from her and add it to the other powers he amassed. In time he would be as strong as his enemy, and then there would be Hell to pay. He laughed at his own joke.

Death Cry

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

CHAPTER TWO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His cheeky grin had returned, as he answered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “Take it, with my blessing.”

   “I take nothing for nothing.”

 Annie Ryan had the same proud streak as her parents.

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

   “A half dozen eggs for all this?”

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

Snatching the basket from off the counter, she retorted.

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

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

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

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

Mary O Brien smiled at Annie’s stunned expression.

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

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

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

   “Yes, Mrs. O Brien. I understand.”

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

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

   “Yes, of course, my dear.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Death Cry

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

Chapter One

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “Annie Ryan, you stop sniffling this minute.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “No,” Annie mumbled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “I know you would.”

   “Was there anyone else there?”

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

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

   “No one.”

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

   “They might be sick.”

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

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

The old woman laughed.

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

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

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

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

   “Why for now?”

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

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

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

   “Of course.”

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

   “I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

   “I know you will.”

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

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

Death Cry

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

PROLOGUE

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

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

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

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

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

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

Death Cry

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

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

The Wraith-Epilogue

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

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

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

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

The Wraith-chapter thirty-seven

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “Are you in pain?” Her mother asked.

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

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

Instantly a nurse appeared, carrying a steel bowl.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “How are you feeling?”

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

   “Sore,” she managed to croak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “What did you tell Toby?”

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

   “And he believed you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “Liar,” she smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “Can you ever forgive me?”

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

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

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

   “I know what you mean,” Jill agreed.  

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

   “How is he?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “No doubt he will,” she laughed.

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

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

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

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

The Wraith-chapter thirty six

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “I’ve been waiting for you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jill closed her eyes and waited for the pain.

   “Stop that now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “Mam, where’s Toby?”

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

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

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

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

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

   “Well, yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

Before the Wraith could answer, Jill said.

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

   “And what is that?”

   “My death,” Jill said.

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

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

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

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

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

   “Mam, stop that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “Where have you been?” the Wraith asked.

They heard the Wraith ask.

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

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

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