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The Wraith chapter twenty-six

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on April 30, 2020
Posted in: birdsong, hope faith God whispers heaven, books, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Halloween, Haunted Houses, honoring the dead, horror, insomnia, memories, monsters, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, thoughts, twlight, Witchcraft, Witches, wraiths, writers, writing. Tagged: ghost hunting, Ghosts, Gothic, Gothic novel, Haunted Graveyard, hauntings, monsters, paranormal, revenge, scary, scary places.. Leave a comment

         Even in the dim light Tom saw the objects laid out on his wife’s grave. The magic circle, drawn with white spray paint, glowed under the rays of the full moon, and seemed to shimmer before his tortured eyes. A noise from somewhere behind made him spin around. Paul and Jill came out from their hiding place when they recognised him.

   “I don’t know what I expected,” he nodded at the grave.

Jill understood how he felt; there was something unholy about the whole thing. But to see it now, laid out in front of him, must have been a terrible shock.

   “I didn’t think you’d come,” she said.

   “Neither did I,” he agreed. “But I was sitting at home, growing more and more tormented, so I thought…” he shrugged, as there were no words to describe his feelings.

   “Maybe you’d be better off at home,” Paul said. “We’ll come and tell you what happens when it’s all over.”

   “No, I’ll stay. I wasn’t much use to her in life, but I’ll not abandon her now,” he looked at Jill. “Do what you have to.”

She explained what she was about to do and warned him about making noise.

   “The ears of the dead are sensitive,” she explained. “Any sudden movements or sound will act as a damper on the ritual.”

He nodded and stood back to allow her to pass. Once she relit the candles and incense, she stepped back inside the circle and sealed the gap with the spray paint. She needed blood to complete her task, so raising the knife she brought from home she plunged the tip into her wrist. Always one to bleed from even the slightest pinprick, the blood flowed out of the cut, and she allowed it to fall onto the earth. She heard Paul’s sharp intake of breath, but ignored it, and wrapped a handkerchief over the cut. Balancing the book on top of the tombstone, she shone the torch on the pages and started to read the chant. The Wraith, she knew, resides in a place devoid of light and hope. Unaware of its surrounding, it lies in restless sleep, and waits for the voice that will summon it from its limbo. It needs the darkness to become visible to the human eye, and the voice that calls on it must be kept low and chanting.

   Jill continued to read, while Paul and Tom watched from the side-line. Calling on God for protection, Paul fingered the rosary beads he kept in his pocket, and the smooth wood of the crucifix made him feel they were not quite unarmed. If there was ever a time for prayer, he thought, this is it. He never looked at the man who stood beside him, but he knew Tom was crying, as he saw the flash of a white handkerchief being brought up to his face.

Beneath the earth something stirred. Marie opened her eyes. At first, she lay listening to the soft calls from above. She didn’t know where she was, or how she had got there. The only awareness she had was of unbearable sorrow. She didn’t try to look around her, which was just as well. Her human body no longer existed all that remained were her bones. She was spared this sight by the urging of the voice that called to her, the notes filled with the same longing that she felt.

   “I’m coming,” she whispered, before surging towards the surface.

The air smelled sweet after the rawness of the place she had been, and she stood for a moment looking around her. She was in a graveyard and it was night!

Jill used the tombstone for support, afraid she would faint. She heard the whimpers of fear from the two men and looked over at them. Their faces were ashen, and despite the cold, she saw beads of sweat on their upper lips. What they were witnessing was beyond belief, and she prayed they would not turn and run. Forcing her eyes back to the triangle, she shivered, as she watched the movements of the spirit trapped within it. This was some sort of nightmare, it had to be, as the thing that stood before her could not be real. The woman, Marie, appeared as she had in the photo on Tom’s side table. She wore a dress of flowing burgundy velvet, her favourite, Tom would later tell Jill, and there was nothing creepy or frightening about her, except she appeared at times to fade in and out, and of course, she was dead.

   “Marie,” Jill licked her dry lips and managed to stand up straight.

If she did not remain strong, she had no chance of gaining control.

   “Marie, do you know where you are?”

The Wraith’s look was one of bewilderment, when she turned towards the sound of the voice, and she wrung her hands.

   “I was in a place of shadow,” she seemed on the verge of tears. “I can’t remember anything. The past is dim. Who are you?”

   “My name is Jill. I’m the one who called you. I need your help.”

   “My help.” She became aware of the presence of the two men, but there was no look of recognition when she saw Tom.

He, on the other hand, had to be helped to stand by Paul. Jill heard his muffled sobbing, and he used a handkerchief to still the sound of his pain.

   “My child is missing,” Jill turned back to the Wraith. “I need your help to find him. The same man who took Rachael has taken him. Do you remember?”

The Wraith’s eyes opened wide at the mention of her daughter’s name.

   “Rachael,” the whisper floated through the night air. “Rachael, my baby.”

She brought her hands to her face, crying as the memory reawakened.

   “I’m sorry to cause you such pain,” Jill cried with her. “But I need to find my son.”

The Wraith shook her head.

   “Why couldn’t you let me be?” She tried to move within the triangle but was held in place by its power. “Send me back,” her pleas were pitiful. “I can’t bear the pain. Set me free.”

Tom tried to go to her, but Paul held him back.

   “Marie,” he called. “Do you remember me?”

   “Tom.” He saw the recognition in her eyes. “Tom, Help me.”

   “Send her back,” he turned to Jill. “Reverse the spell. Do something. This is unbearable.”

   “I’m sorry.” She tried to block out the sound of his tears and turned back to the Wraith. “My son, Toby, is seven-years-old and the man who took Rachael has him right now. If I don’t find him, he will kill him. I’m begging you as one mother to another, help me.”

   “Please,” the Wraith struggled against her invisible barrier. “Set me free.”

   “I will set you free, if you promise to help me,” Jill felt stronger, more determined.

   “Let her go, you fucking bitch,” Tom screamed, and if it were not for Paul’s grip on his arms, would have attacked Jill.

   “I’ll let her go when she hears me out,” Jill glanced at him, and then back at the Wraith. “Will you listen to what I have to say?”

   “Am I dead?”

The question stunned them to silence. They looked from her to one another, unsure of what to say. Finally, Tom, after assuring Paul he was calm, stepped forward.

   “Marie, love,” he walked closer to the triangle. “You died eight years ago; don’t you remember? A year after Rachael went missing. Her loss was too much for you to bear, and you took an overdose.”

   “Oh, God,” her glance flew around the graveyard. “Is that why I’m here, am I being punished for committing suicide?”

   “No, love, you’re not. Jill called you to ask for help. Her little boy is missing, and we think the same man who took Rachael has him. If we find Toby, then maybe we will find Rachael.”

   “We could bring her home?” Her eyes filled with hope.

   “Yes,” he was trying hard not to cry. “We can bring her home, and you can be at rest.”

He reached out and tried to touch her, but there was nothing there. She seemed to be part of the air, nothing solid, no substance. Puzzled, he looked at Jill.

   “She is like a shadow; it is Marie’s spirit that you see.”

He nodded, sadly and stepped back. Paul patted his shoulder, urging him to be strong. It took great fortitude to walk away from the woman he had loved and lost. The woman he never expected to see again, not in this life.

   “Will you help me?” Jill asked.

   “What can I do? I can’t even step out of this thing.” She looked down at the triangle at her feet.

   “I can free you from there, if you promise to help me. If not, I can send you back to where you came from.”

   “There is nothing for me there,” she looked in horror at the stone that bore her name. “Just endless darkness and cold that chills the soul. I will do whatever I can to help, though I don’t know what use I will be.”

   “Very well,” Jill picked up the book. “Once you are free from the triangle, you can move about wherever you please. You have the power to travel on the wind. It is up to you if you want to be visible, but I suggest you stay hidden. Tom thinks someone in the village has taken my son; your job is to find him. It is only by night you can move around. You will be powerless during the day.”

   “If it is possible, I’ll find him and when I do…”

Jill interrupted her.

   “You won’t do anything, if you do, we won’t find Rachael and Toby.”

   “I understand,” she smiled. “Maybe, later, then?”

While this woman that stood before them looked like Marie, Tom knew she had changed. Perhaps her mind had flown before the suicide, or was tainted by the endless years of darkness, but she now had a vicious streak, and he knew she would need careful handling.

   Jill’s stomach lurched as she began the chants to free the Wraith, and she hoped she would not regret what she was about to do. While the woman appeared to have no substance, the book declared the Wraith was capable of great deeds, and even hinted at its need for revenge. If this was the case, then God help the man who would shortly become its prey.

   “You should be able to move now,” Jill stopped, and nodded at the triangle.

The Wraith lifted her leg and took a tentative step out of her prison. When she saw there was nothing to fear, she stepped out of the triangle.

   “You will come with me,” Jill said. “I will show you where I live, and you must return there at the end of every night.”

   “I must?” She raised an eyebrow.

Jill knew that she was testing her; the book had warned that this might happen.

   “Yes, you must,” she stepped out of the circle and approached the Wraith until their noses were almost touching. Its scent was like the breath of death on her face. “If you do not, I will send you back now.”

   “You have that much power?” It was said with a sneer. Now that all the confusion and terror were past, it had become more assured and aware of its power.

   “I brought you here, didn’t I?” Jill held its gaze and refused to be beaten.

   “Very well.” It saw she was serious, and some instinct warned it must obey. At least until it had done what it set out to do and that was to find her child.

   “We need to gather up these things and wipe away the circle,” Jill turned to the men.

She blew out the candles and incense and threw everything into bags. Paul and Tom kicked dirt over the white lines on the ground and pulled up tufts of dried grass to disguise the place where it was drawn. At no time would Paul acknowledge the Wraith and kept well back from it. With the three of them helping, it only required one trip back to the car, and Jill was glad of this, as she felt exhausted. The Wraith had started to feed on her strength, and she knew the next few days would be draining. Paul was much quieter than usual, and once they were outside the graveyard, Jill turned to him.

   “I know what I did was terrible, but I had no choice.”

   “I know, I know,” his face was still devoid of colour. “But I’m just wondering about that thing in there.”

   “Her name’s Marie,” Tom dumped his load into the car boot.

   “I have my doubts,” Paul’s eyes stared into the darkness.

   “About what?” Tom asked.

   “I got to know your wife well during the months before her death,” Paul said. “And when she first appeared, I thought she seemed the same woman, but there’s something not right. You must have felt it.”

   “What’s, not right?” Jill felt fear clutch at her heart.

   “There’s something about her,” Paul replied. “I know you’ve seen it too.”

Tom tried to avoid his eyes, but he knew Paul was right. There was something, a cruel streak that had never been there before.

   “Where is she anyway?” Paul looked back to the graveyard.

   “She’s there,” Jill assured him. “She’ll follow me home.”

   “Right,” he opened his car door. “I’ll go home and get some clothes and then I’ll be right back.”

   “You’re coming to my house,” Jill asked. “Why?”

   “I’m not leaving you alone with that thing,” He held up a hand to still Tom’s protests. “I know you think it’s Marie that was brought back, and maybe it was. But she’s changed, and not for the better.”

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The Wraith-chapter twenty-five

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on April 29, 2020
Posted in: birdsong, hope faith God whispers heaven, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Halloween, Haunted Houses, horror, insomnia, memories, monsters, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, twlight, Witchcraft, wraiths, writers, writing. Tagged: eerie, ghost, Ghost Hunters, ghost hunting, Halloween, hauntings, monsters, revenge, scary, Witchcraft, witches, wraith. Leave a comment

          Jill spent the next few hours in study. There was still a lot to learn, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to complete her task without the help of the book. Though it weighed a tonne, she had no choice but to take it with her to the graveyard. A magic circle needed to be drawn around the grave, and she would never memorise the writing and symbols in such a short time. Along with the triangle, candles, incense, and a host of other things, her load would be a heavy one. Dusk had descended when she started to load her things into the car. She fed the dogs before locking them in for the night. Frost settled on the walls and roofs of the outbuildings, and it would be freezing by the time she was ready.

   She decided to leave about ten. This would give the children time to finish their trick or treat, and it would be hours before the two pubs in the village closed. So, there should be no one to disturb her, unless some of the teenagers decided to get up to mischief, frightening one another with dares in the graveyard. Another thing that made her balk, was that she had to be completely naked under the cloak. This was embarrassing enough with no one around to see, but in the middle of winter! The book ordered she must wash, and there was an assortment of pots boiling over the fire. Each one had to be carried upstairs and emptied into the bath. Her back ached by the time she slipped into the water, and though it barely came up to her sides, she managed to scrub herself clean. The body must the spotless, the book said, so she rubbed the cloth along her skin until it glowed red. Once she dried off, she lay down on her bed and prayed. Calling on the highest, and those she loved and lost for help, she closed her eyes and tried to rest. The alarm on her phone was set for nine. This gave her plenty of time to reach the graveyard. The cloak lay across the foot of the bed, so at least she didn’t have to worry about dressing. She was weary from the night of studying and worry about her son. She counted out the rosary, using her fingers as a guide, and whispered the words aloud, as she called on the mother of God.

   The shrilling of the alarm roused her, and she opened her eyes in fright. It was time.

Slipping out from under the quilt, she swung the cloak around her naked body and went downstairs. After turning off lights and making certain the fire was safely banked down, she went outside. Bess, sensing the presence of her mistress, whined, but Jill ignored her, and rechecked the things in the car boot. It would not do to leave something behind. As she had predicted, it was freezing. Small puddles that lined the lane had frozen over, and she heard the crack as the ice gave way under the weight of the car. Her stomach hurt, and not just from the want of nourishment. It was the cold realisation that for the first time in her life, she was truly alone. This feeling was nothing like the one she felt when Joe abandoned them. This was something else, an emptiness that made her heart ache. She wondered, as she drove out onto the main road, if she would ever see her home again? Was she leaving behind the things that had become familiar to her? After tonight, her life would be changed forever. As she neared the village, she was reminded once again it was Halloween. Candles were lit in all the windows to light the way home for the dead and little children darted from house to house, screaming and laughing, as they vied with one another for the best treats. It was familiar, yet she felt so far removed from it all. Last year, Toby dressed as Superman. Though she had tried to explain that the superhero had nothing to do with Halloween, he had insisted, but settled on having his face painted like a skeleton. Was he thinking about that now, she wondered? Did he even know what night it was? Stop, don’t, she warned. If she continued like this, she would be of no use to him.

   The road that led to the graveyard was empty. With no houses around, the only thing that cut through the dark were the car headlights. As she figured, there was no one about when she parked. Wrapping the cloak tightly around her, she carried her first load through the gate. The wind had died down completely, so there was no fear of it whipping the cloth aside, exposing her. The graveyard, that seemed peaceful during the hours of daylight, now became a sinister city of the dead. A faint, white mist rose above the graves, adding to the sense of menace. The old tombs that had earlier just been bricks and mortar now seemed like crouching, dark beasts, ready to pounce.

   She made sure the batteries in the torch were new, and it guided her way along the path between the graves. She was panting when she deposited her load beside Marie’s grave, and she felt she might wet herself from both cold and fear. With no other choice, she squatted behind one of the large cypress trees, and emptied her aching bladder. She felt the warmth of the urine rising from the damp earth, but she had nothing to wipe herself with. Afraid, if she used to cloak to do so she would in some way taint its power, she allowed the last drops to glide down her legs. This added to her discomfort, as she made her way back to the grave. Taking the cans of spray paint, she found in one of the outbuildings, out of a plastic bag, she began to trace the magic circle around the grave. A space had to be left for her to walk through, and this would need to be filled in to complete the circle later. Once this was done, using the book as a guide and with the flashlight in her mouth, she crawled around the cold grass, filling in the names and symbols. Then she set out the candles in their tall, glass containers, in case of wind. Next, the bowls of salt and water. Once all this was in place, she lit the incense and candles. The Triangle of Solomon had to sit outside to circle, and to the right of the grave. This was where the spirit would appear and be contained. While it disturbed her to think she would, in a way, be holding the spirit captive, she had to follow the instructions. The Wraith would be a being of power, but she could only control it, if her spirit was stronger, according to the book. It would be like a shadow that existed to do her will. It would feed on her emotions and strength, and without them, would cease to exist. Her senses had never been so alive, Jill thought, so if that was what it took to keep the spirit alive, there shouldn’t be a problem.

   The time was right, everything was in place, and she was ready to step into the circle, when she heard footsteps approach. Hardly daring to breathe, she fell to her knees and blew out the candles. Whoever it was had a torch, she saw the faint beam through the mist. Pulling the cloak tightly around her, she huddled against the tombstone and waited.

The day had seemed endless for Paul O’Farrell, as he checked the various clues and sightings that led to nothing. Now it was dark, and the searchers had all disbanded and headed for home. Tonight, was a time for family, for gaiety and laughter. He could never figure out Halloween and had always thought of it as a nuisance. He was down six men tonight, as even those who were drafted in were called on to keep the peace in the village.

   The air was freezing when he stepped out of the school, and he pulled his coat collar higher, trying to escape its touch. He came back to the assembly hall to check if there were any phone calls on the whereabouts of the boy, but there was nothing. He was going to lose him, just as he had the other three children. A group of costumed figures ran screaming by him when he stepped outside the gate, and he stopped to watch their progress. At least they were too small to get up to any real mischief. It was the older ones who did the egging and threw the firecrackers. Once the children disappeared into the distance, he walked to his car. The street was quiet now, with just the odd pumpkin lantern to mark the day, but by tomorrow all signs of this holiday would be gone. He knew in the next few days; shop windows would start to fill with toys and cards for the Christmas. Out with the old and in with the new, he thought, as he opened the car door. God, I’m a miserable bastard. He smiled at the idea, but he no longer took pleasure in any occasion. To him festivities meant drunks, wife beaters and vandals. Had he always been that way? He thought of his wife and sons. Had his scepticism been a blight on the holidays? Well, it was too late now. As he drove through the village, he saw through the lit windows family gatherings, that only served to remind him of what he had lost. Maybe, he would try and spend more time with his sons, and there were grandchildren on the scene now. At least he could make sure he did not mess them up. Ah, it’s just the season, he sighed, that makes you feel so lonely. Halloween, the night when life meets death and the spirits rise from the grave. He would not wish that on Maura, not after what she suffered. Though there was never a day that passed without him wishing things could have been different, there were some things that were much worse. Like watching someone you loved slowly eaten away by a pitiless disease. No, he wouldn’t wish that on his worst enemy.

   There was no point in going home, as there was nothing for him to do there but sit and think. He could not go into the pub, as he promised Jill, he would stay off the drink, and he was not the sort who could show restraint in such surroundings by ordering a mineral water. Deciding he would call out and see how she was doing; he steered the car out of the village.

   He knew the minute he drove to the yard; she had not kept her promise. He hoped she would, but the darkened windows of their house told their story. Still, he got out of the car and knocked on the door. When there was no answer, he tried the handle, but it was locked, a sure sign she had gone out, as no one in the area ever felt the need to lock their doors. Across the yard, the old sheepdog barked, the sound muffled by the walls of her cage, and he heard her scratching at the door. Raising the dead, he shook his head in disbelief, but then thought of her words. Would he, if he were in her position, not do the same thing? As it was, there were no new leads, and it looked as though they would never find the child.

   He’d stopped off outside his own house just long enough to collect the things he would need. Now, he walked along the path between the graves trying to find the right one. He had a vague idea where Marie was laid to rest, and he swung the beam of the torch along the tombstones, reading the inscriptions. He didn’t dare call out. Instead he used the shovel he carried as a walking stick to lean on when he stopped beside each grave. He could not bear to think about what he would have to do when he found the right one, and it set his teeth on edge, to think of the sound it would make when the tip of the shovel met the wood of the coffin.

   “Ah, there you are,” his torch beam moved over the crouched figure that huddled against the stone.

   “Go away,” Jill hissed. “You’re not going to stop me.”

   “I’m not here to stop you,” he held out his hand to help her up. “Come on, we haven’t got all night.”

  Jill took the offered hand and stepped warily out of the circle, sure at any moment he would handcuff her. When she realised, he was not going to do so, she looked at the shovel.

   “What are you going to do with that?”

   “I’m going to help you raise the dead. That’s what we’re here for isn’t it?”

   “We’re not going to dig her up.” She would have laughed, if she weren’t so frightened.

   “Oh,” he looked at the shovel in his hand, and then threw it aside. “That’s a relief.”

   “It’s done with symbols and chants,” she waved towards the circle and triangle.

   “I see.” He walked closer and inspected the drawing.

   “I was about to start when I heard you,” she explained.

   “Go ahead, then, I’ll not stop you.”

   “Okay, you move over there,” she pointed to one of the trees. “And whatever you do, don’t make a sound; no matter what you hear or see. Once I’ve started, I can’t stop, and any interruption will ruin everything and probably kill me.”

   “Jesus,” he moved into the shadows. “You’re frightening me now.”

   “There’s no other way,” she said, her eyes filled with sadness. “If it gets too much for you, just walk away.”

   “No, go on.” He couldn’t admit he wasn’t as brave as a woman. “I’ll stay till the end.”

   Jill knew the sacrifice he was making just by being there. If anyone caught them, he would lose his job, and she’d probably end up in a mental home. He remained silent as she relit the candles and incense. More aware than ever of her nudity beneath the cloak, she held tightly to its folds. Once ready, she turned to him.

   “I’m going to start the chant now.” She stepped into the circle and picked up the spray can on the ground to fill in the gap.

She had just taken the cap off the tin when another set of footsteps echoed in the darkness. Dropping to her knees, she once again blew out the candles, and ran to join Paul, who crouched behind one of the larger tombstones. The footsteps came closer.  Sure, of their destination, they moved quickly over the gravelled path. As they waited for whoever it was to appear, Paul looked at her.

   “What have you been doing,” he whispered. “Selling tickets?”

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The Wraith-chapter twenty-four

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on April 27, 2020
Posted in: books, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Halloween, Haunted Houses, honoring the dead, horror, insomnia, letting go, memories, monsters, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, sleeplessness, thoughts, twlight, Witchcraft, wraiths, writers, writing. Tagged: children, ghost hunting, Ghosts, Gothic, Gothic novel, Halloween, hauntings, missing children, monsters, paranormal, witches, wraiths. Leave a comment

         The flashing red light on the answering machine demanded attention when she walked back into the hall. She forgot, in her haste to study the books, Paul O’Farrell had promised to call, and now she listened to his hurried apologies for not having done so. They were taking the search further afield, he told her, and she could reach him on his cell phone, if she needed him. She was ashamed, when she realised, she failed to notice his absence. It could not be helped, as her mind was set on more pressing things. There was no need to bother him now, and she knew he would have told her if there was any hope. No doubt, Tom would contact him to complain about her, but for now she would leave well enough alone.

   The village main street was busy, as mothers hurried to buy treats for the night ahead. It was only when she saw the costumed children and the garish decorations in the shop windows, Jill remembered it was Halloween. Tonight, was the night of the dead, when graves yawned, and spirits walked the land. Shivering, frightening herself with such ghoulish thoughts, she steered the car to the curb. She tried to ignore the pitying looks of the other customers, as she waited for her purchases to be bagged. It was easy enough to buy candles, but the shopkeeper made a great fuss when she asked for incense.

   “Not much call for that sort of thing,” he looked around at his other customers, expecting them to confirm this.

   “There’s a shop in James’s Terrace,” one of the women offered. “It sells alternative medicines, and all sorts of queer stuff.”

   “Thank you,” Jill knew from the woman’s tone the shop was not raking in the profits.

While the village and its inhabitants were hauled kicking, and screaming into the twenty-first century, it would take years before they were ready to embrace any form of lateral thinking.

   The walk to the shop meant she had to pass the school. Closed now for the holiday, it held the same deserted air as it did on the day Toby was taken. A frigid wind scattered the few remaining leaves across the playground, and she heard the rustle of their dryness on the concrete. The main door was open, but there was no sign of anyone. Perhaps, it was as Paul said, and everyone had moved to the new location. She couldn’t allow herself to think they scaled down the investigation, or the searchers had got tired and abandoned it.

   The shop was in the middle of a small row of house, and she realised where she now stood was probably once someone’s sitting room. The assistant was not at all what she expected, and she admonished herself for thinking in clichés. Envisioning a hippie type with dreadlocks and flowing skirts, she was surprised to find a sensibly dressed, middle-aged woman behind the counter. A vast array of incense sticks was for sale, and since the book had not specified what type to use, she chose sandalwood. Unfortunately, the village community was small, and everyone knew everyone’s business, so there was no escaping the woman’s sad look as she handed over the parcel. Please don’t say anything kind, Jill prayed, I just couldn’t bear it. To her immense relief, the woman kept her mouth shut, and offered nothing more than the usual pleasantries. Still, tears picked the corners of her eyes as she made her way back to the car. If anyone even mentioned Toby’s name, she would have broken down.

   The interior of the car felt warm after the biting wind, and she waited until her breathing steadied before turning on the engine. A gentle tapping on the passenger window made her jump, and she looked over to find the hunched figure of Toby’s teacher, Mr Jackson, peeping in. At any other time, she would have been pleased to see him, but not now, not with so much at stake. The window hummed down when she pressed the release button between the seats.

   “Any news?” He asked.

   “They’ve widened the search,” Jill informed him. “I got a message from the detective in charge last night. They must have gone quite a way.” She looked in the direction of the school. “There’s doesn’t seem to be anyone about.”

   “Yes, they told us this morning, but the phones are still being manned,” he assured her. “I was in there a few minutes ago. We have a play on tonight, and I’m in charge, that’s why I’m not out searching.”

   “I understand,” she tried to smile. “Life goes on.”

   “Never lose hope, miracles have happened in the past,” was his parting comment.

He’s a nice man, Jill though, as she drove home.

   She couldn’t ignore the costumed skeletons that danced along the footpaths, and their images made her think of what lay ahead. Deciding it was wiser to visit the graveyard during daylight hours, she turned the car around. There was no need for her to ask for directions, as they had passed it on their first day in their new home. They did a tour of the village, memorising landmarks and getting to know the area. The church was separate from the graveyard, so there would be very few about on such a cold day. She was right; the small car park was deserted. Buttoning her coat, she stepped out of the car and walked along the boundary wall. The small gate for foot traffic had once been painted silver, but the dark grey of the steel now showed through. Its rusted hinges groaned when she pushed it open, and the noise jarred her fragile nerves. The only other sound to disturb the quiet was the cawing of crows in the trees. Gravel crunched beneath her feet, as she made her way along the small paths between the graves. The graveyard must be hundreds of years old, she thought, studying the layout. Tombs, once elaborate, had fallen into decay, their walls blackened by time. It was impossible to read any of the inscriptions, as the weather had worn the wording away, so the inhabitant was now nameless and forgotten. It was difficult, even when she ran her fingers over the indents in the stone, to make out any of the names.

   The first few yards were filled with old tombstones. Large Celtic crosses covered in moss and bird droppings stood guard over the small, more humble markers. The graveyard continued upwards, and it was only when she reached the brow of the hill that she saw the more modern part. Here the shiny marbles stretched out in a range of whites, blacks and greys. Unlike the forgotten ones in the old part, this area showed signs of remembrance. Faded, dry wreaths marked some of the graves, and the wind carried with it the sickly, sweet smell of dying flowers. She scanned each of the inscriptions, trying not to think about the ones marking the passing of a child, or young adult.

   Marie’s grave stood at the end of one of the rows. The flowers placed on the shiny white stones that covered the place where she lay were fresh, no more than a day or two old. She thought of Tom and his lonely vigil beside the grave of his wife and prayed she would be spared the same thing. Looking around her, making sure that there was no one to hear, she knelt.

   “Marie,” she whispered, placing her hand on the moist stones. “I need your help. My child is missing; I think the same person who took Rachael has taken him. I’m coming back tonight to try and bring you back. Please don’t hate me. I’m sure you would do the same thing in my place.”

Jill sobbed as she spoke, and she felt like she was going to vomit. The terror of the last few days overflowed, added to that her fear of the act of sacrilege she planned to carry out.

   “God help me,” she stood and walked away.

Was it her imagination, somewhere beneath the earth her words were heard? She was still crying when she reached the car and had wait for the sobs to subside. How in the name of God would she go through with it?

To add to her discomfort, she saw Paul and Tom’s cars parked outside her house. She knew from Paul’s stern face that Tom told him what she planned. Pushing aside Bess and the pups welcome, she walked by the men.

   “I suppose you better come in.” She didn’t wait for their reply, but instead walked into the kitchen and filled the kettle.

They were standing behind her when she turned, and she waited for the tirade of reprimand to begin.

   “Sit down,” she pointed at the table.

They both sat on the same side, so she was forced to sit opposite, with only the wood between them. Their presence marked the boundary line, but was like a vast chasm, so far apart was they in their thinking. She was ready for battle, and prepared to deny Tom’s allegations, if need be. She couldn’t risk losing her freedom, not tonight.

   “I can’t believe what I’ve just heard,” Paul was the first to speak.

   “Really?” she tried to appear nonchalant. “What have you heard?”

   “Oh, I think you know,” he was not fooled by her act. “Tom told me about your plan to raise the dead, and I’m not going to allow such nonsense to continue.”

   “If it is, as you say, nonsense, why does it bother you?” she looked from one to the other. “Either of you?”

Paul’s face had grown red, and she imagined steam might come out of his ears, he was so angry.

   “Will you talk sense, woman. This is not some backward country. This is Ireland, in the twenty-first century. You can no more raise spirits, than I can fly to the moon. What you are thinking is impossible.”

   “So why does it bother you, then?”

   “Because,” he pounded his fist on the table. “I can’t have you seen running around graveyards in the dead of night, up to all sorts of mischief, that’s why.”

   “Look,” Tom tried to keep the peace. “This is getting us nowhere.”

Jill walked to the fire and pulled back the kettle that was now bubbling. She never asked them if they wanted a drink, but instead set about making the coffees. They waited in silence until she placed the mugs in front of them.

   “Promise me, you’ll stay home tonight?” Paul asked when she had resumed her seat.

   “Of course, I will.” She never even blinked.

   “She doesn’t mean it,” Tom said.

   “I know,” Paul’s mouth was set in a grim line. “But I can’t afford to have my men watch her.”

   “Hey, I’m here,” Jill said. “Don’t talk about me as if I’m not even in the room.”

Both men shook their heads when they looked at her.

   “Is there any news?” She asked, trying to change the subject.

   “No,” Paul said. “We’re following a few leads, but it’s not working out as I expected. The man I’ve had my eye on for years is not moving, so I’m torn between sitting and waiting, or continuing elsewhere. Jesus,” he ran his hand through his hair.

The stress he was suffering was evident, and tears pricked her eyes again. Paul was a good man, but his work was killing him.

   “Will you hear me out?” she asked.

   “Listen to that rubbish?” he nodded towards the books.

   “Let me read it to you, and then decide,” she gave him no time to answer, but instead brought the book to the table and began to read.

Her grandmother’s letter was the first thing she read aloud, and she knew from their expressions her words hit home. It took quite a while to finish the part in the book about the work of the Necromancer. When she finished, she looked at them.

   “I know what I’m about to do is terrible; even those practised in the dark arts despise anyone like me. But what choice do I have? It’s like my grandmother says, it’s impossible to disturb anyone not at rest.”

   “And how do you know when someone is not at rest?” Tom asked.

   “I don’t, but it says here,” she pointed at the book, “that only a restless spirit will answer the call.”

   “It’s all a load of bullshit,” Paul stood. “I have to get back to work.”

   “Have you got a better idea,” Jill called after him.

   “Ah, leave me alone, woman,” she heard him mutter, before slamming the front door.

   “What are you waiting for?” she rounded on Tom.

When he refused to answer, she started to clear away the empty mugs. She was aware he watched her as she worked at the sink.

   “What?” She spun around, when she could no longer bear the feeling of his eyes boring into her back.

   “Do it.”

   “Do what?” she asked, not daring to hope he was giving permission.

   “Go ahead with your plan,” he stood. “But don’t expect me to take part in any of it.”

   “Thank you.” It was a relief to know she was not going to have to do it behind his back.

   “Don’t thank me. I’m doing this for Rachael and Toby. It goes against everything I believe in, but if it works, and does no harm,” he paused, “can you assure me of that?”

   “No, I’m afraid I can’t. I only know Marie would have tried anything to find her daughter.”

   “Yes.” She had to strain to hear him. “She would have made a deal with the devil. So, go ahead, and may God forgive me.”

   “May he forgive us both,” Jill prayed.

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The Wraith-chapter twenty-three

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on April 26, 2020
Posted in: books, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Halloween, Haunted Houses, horror, memories, monsters, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, twlight, Witchcraft, Witches, wraiths, writers, writing. Tagged: Ghost Hunters, Ghosts, Gothic, Gothic novel, Graveyard, Haunted Graveyard, hauntings, Horror, monsters, wraith. Leave a comment

           The cold finally drove Jill out of the attic. As the night progressed, her hands lost all feeling and she could no longer hold the book she was reading. Wrapping the books in the protective cover of black material, she sought refuge in the warmth of the kitchen. The light was dim here, and she thought this would afford the brittle pages some protection. Either way, she had to take the chance, or risk catching pneumonia. There was a side table that in the past was used for storing the enamel bowls full of cream. These were later used in the making of butter. But now the table stood forlorn and empty. It would make an ideal desk, and it was big enough to take all four of the books. Once they were spread out on the top, Jill closed her eyes and whispered a prayer of protection for her son. No matter how hard she tried, her mind kept straying back to his distress. Still, she knew his life depended on the words before her, and she would have to try and concentrate, or all would be lost.

   It was difficult to read in the light from the lone ceiling bulb, so she threw more sods of turf onto the fire, and its cheerful blaze gave her tired eyes some relief. The clock on top of the dresser told her it was now 3 am, the dead of night. She shivered and tried to brush aside her unease when she looked towards the window. Sometimes she imagined death itself waited outside, warning her with its presence of what was to be. Despite her determination to be strong, her eyes were drawn again and again to the dark curtains, sure that if she were to part them, the dark spectre would be standing there. She saw its shape in every shadow. It lingered over by the outbuildings and glided along the ditches as she walked the land.

   Stop it, she admonished herself, this is doing no one any good. Wiping her eyes, brushing away the tears that had fallen, she went back to work.

   By morning, just as the first rays of light cut through the darkness, she knew what she had to do. The act she would perform was beyond all human comprehension, but she would do it, nevertheless. The only thing standing in her way was her conscience, and she wondered if she could trust Tom enough to tell him of her plan. Of course, he might be appalled at the idea and threaten her with all sorts of legal action, but it was worth a shot.  She really needed his support. She knew Paul would have her arrested if she told him what she planned. There was nothing for it, but to tell Tom and hope he would back her. It was not an easy decision for her to make. After all, she was going to try and raise his wife from the dead.

   There are times when the very soul calls out to heaven for help, and such was the case for Jill, as she waited for Tom to arrive. She had eaten very little, as the book warned she must fast for the spell to be performed correctly, but despite her meagre meal of dry toast, she still felt sick. Dark moths ran riot in her stomach, which didn’t help to quell the rising nausea, and she thought she’d throw up, when she saw his car drive into the yard.

   “Morning,” he said, his eyes sad, despite the smile. “Have you been up all night?”

There was no denying the bags under her eyes, or the dark circles that only helped to draw further attention to them.

   “I got caught up in the book I was reading,” she helped him out of his coat. “And before I knew it, it was morning.”

   “You must be exhausted,” he followed her into the kitchen, and was surprised to see the books laid out on the tabletop.

   “The attic was too cold,” she explained. “The light is not great here, so I thought they would be okay. I’ve left the curtains closed. I was able to pull the table closer to the middle of the room, so between the bulb and the fire, I managed to see all right.”

   “What have you learned?” He glanced from Jill to the books.

   “Quite a lot, really,” she had no idea how to approach the subject with him, so instead skirted around it. “Have you eaten? I could make you something.”

   “I had breakfast before I came out,” He sat opposite her at the kitchen table

   “Is something bothering you?” He sat opposite her at the kitchen table.

   “I found a way to find Toby.”

   “Jesus, that’s great,” his eyes lit up. “What is it?”

She looked down at the wood, not daring to look at his face as she explained what she learned. The silence in the room once she finished speaking was so heavy, she felt she could have reached out and touched it.

   “Let me get this straight,” Tom said, and she heard how hard he was trying to control his emotions. “You’re planning to try and raise someone from the dead to help you find your son?”

   “Yes. It’s called a Wraith, an avenging spirit.”

   “Are you out of your mind?”

   “Yes,” she said, and jumped up. She walked over to retrieve the book she was reading. “Maybe I am.”

Placing the book on the table in front of him, she pointed to the chapter where she learned what she must do.

   “Read it,” were her parting words, before she went outside to feed the dogs.

While she fussed and petted the animals which were grateful to be free, her eyes strayed back to the house.

   Over half an hour lapsed before she finally got up the courage to go inside. He’d finished reading, and now stared into the fire. His face was ashen, even in the gloom. If he heard her come in, he gave no sign of it, but continued to watch the leaping flames. She sat at the table, and waited, and waited.

   “It’s disgraceful,” he said, his voice echoing in the stillness. “It’s against the laws of God.”

Jill started to cry, big silent tears at first, then racking sobs that could not be quieted. He let her cry and offered no words of kindness or support, until she was sure she had lost him.

   “I’m sorry,” she gulped, wiping her eyes on a dish towel. “I want to find my son.”

   “So, do I, but not like this.”

   “Then tell me how to do it,” she said, starting to get angry. “Tell me how to find him, before it’s too late.”

He didn’t reply.

   “I thought so; you’re like all the rest, full of good intention, but lacking when it comes to real courage.”

   “You call this courageous?” He jabbed his finger into the book. “You think you are some sort of God? That you and you alone, can raise the dead?”

   “I can try.” She stared at him.

Every fibre of his being warned him he should run; leave this place and have nothing more to do with her. Yet, he saw reflected in her eyes the same hopelessness he was forced to witness in his wife’s, and he knew he would stay, despite the risks.

   “Let’s look at this again,” he said, and started to read the words aloud.

Jill had memorised them and her lips moved as he read. In the past, she found it impossible to remember a speech she had written and was at pains to recite poetry in school. Yet the words in the book were engraved on her brain, almost as if she used them before, in another time.

   “Okay,” he was finished. “According to this, we need something called the Triangle of Solomon, which sounds like an instrument of sort and a book called the Key of Solomon. Have you got either?”

   “The cupboard,” Jill pointed towards the ceiling, recalling her grandmother’s letter.

   “Let’s just say these things are up there,” he continued. “You would need a black cloak, candles, incense and human blood!”

   “That’s easy enough. I can buy the incense and candles and use my own blood.”

   “Do you have a black cloak?”

Now she wasn’t sure if he was serious or making fun of her.

   “No,” she tried to control her anger. “It shouldn’t be too hard to find one.”

One of the books on the side table fell to the floor with a resounding thud. Jill ran to rescue it and stuffed back in the pages that fell out.

   “How did that happen?” Tom stood next to her.

   “It probably slid off the material.” She stood and pulled the dark cloth from underneath and handed it to him.

   “Coincidence or what?”

She turned around and saw he held what she had thought was some old material. A hooded cloak draped from his hands. She reached out and touched the cloth, hardly able to believe her eyes.

   “It must have belonged to my grandmother,” she said, and smiled at the softness of the cloth.

   “Still, it’s a bit weird the book called your attention to it.”

   “Now, who’s being paranoid?” She took the cloak and draped it around her.

Though the material smelled old and musty, there was something comforting about the weight of the wool on her shoulders.

   “It fits you,” Tom said, as she twirled around.

   “It’s a cloak; it would fit anyone.”

   “What next?” He asked, resigned to helping her now.

   “Let’s go up to the attic and see what we can find.” She walked towards the door.

As he followed her up the stairs, he tried not to think about the act she was willing to perform to save her son. This was the sort of thing you only ever read about in some horror novel. It would be laughable, if she were not so serious about it.

   The cupboard, her grandmother wrote about stood beside the trunk. This too was guarded by a stout lock, and she didn’t have to look very far for the key, as she had left the ring beside the trunk. Moments later it was open, and she stepped back to get a better look. Jill was now so used to the room she no longer needed the lamp to find her way through it, but Tom lit it and held it up in front of her. They examined the assortment of figures and drawings the cupboard held.

   “Take this,” Tom passed her the lamp and knelt.

She watched as he rummaged at the back of the cupboard before pulling out a wooden triangle. It was painted black and measured about 3x3x3ft.

   “See,” he traced his fingers along the words written on each side. “It’s like the book said, the three sacred names of God.”

   “That must be the Triangle of Solomon,” Jill put the lamp on top of the trunk and started to look through the shelves.

   “I bet this is what we’re looking for,” he said. The old book was heavy, the covers held together by an ornate clasp.

There was no key on the ring that fit, and they had to resort to breaking it open.

   “Yes,” Jill gasped, as the first page came in to view. “It’s the Key of Solomon.”

   “Let’s take them downstairs,” Tom suggested. “It’s too hard to see up here.”

They spent the next few hours studying the book and learning its use.

   “Do you think it could work?” Jill asked when they were finished.

   “Maybe, with a serious practitioner, someone who believes in all this, and knows what they’re doing.”

   “Not a novice like me?”

   “Do you really think a spell can raise the dead?”

   “I think it’s like my grandmother said. It’s impossible to disturb one who lies in restless sleep.”

   “Like whom, for instance?” He was getting tired of this nonsense.

   “I don’t know,” Jill bit her lip, and was reminded it had still not healed. “Someone with unfinished business, perhaps.”

   “Go on, say it,” his face was set hard. “No, then I’ll say it for you. Like my wife. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”

   “I wasn’t necessarily thinking along those lines.” She hoped he didn’t notice her blush. “I was just thinking out loud.”

   “No, you weren’t,” he said, shaking from temper. “You were thinking about Marie.”

   “Tom, please,” she touched his hand, but he sprang back as though her touch burned.

   “Get that out of your mind, right now,” he said and stalked into the hall. He grabbed his coat off the peg. “I should have listened to my instinct, and left hours ago.”

He was about to slam the front door, but she caught it before he could, and threw it open.

   “I’m going to do it,” she screamed, and ran after him.

He was already in his car, the door locked, when she tried the handle.

   “Listen to me, Tom,” she beat her fists on the glass. “I am going to find my son, with or without your help, and I’m doing it tonight.”

He wound the window down, his face transformed from the gentle man she had come to know to one barely able to contain his rage. He was spitting as he spoke.

   “You stay the fuck away from my wife’s grave, I’m warning you.”

   “Is Marie at rest?” she ran to keep up with the car, “or is she waiting for Rachael to come home? Ask yourself that, Tom is she still waiting? Will you deny her the chance to find her daughter?”

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The Wraith chapter twenty-two

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on April 25, 2020
Posted in: books, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Halloween, Haunted Houses, horror, insomnia, memories, monsters, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, sleeplessness, twlight, Witchcraft, Witches, writers, writing. Tagged: burial mounds, ghost hunting, Ghosts, Gothic, Gothic novel, graveyards, Haunted Graveyard, hauntings, monsters, paranormal, revenge, wraiths. Leave a comment

         Every time Toby woke, he was forced to breathe; the cold, dank, mustiness of the grave, mingled with the reek of rotten timber and mildew. Sometimes, while he slept, he caught the scent of his mother, but when he reached out to her, there was nothing there. He had grown used to the dark and no longer needed to leave the fridge open all the time. Now, he slipped out of bed and went to get something to eat. All the fizzy drinks and biscuits were gone, and he was left with the cheese, ham and milk. In a way, he was glad of this, as he had learned that too many sweet things made his tummy hurt. To his disgust, he had to use the potty thing, and now this stench, added to that of the room.

   He wasn’t quite as frightened now that the little girl came to see him. At first, he was afraid, as sometimes the room seemed full of children. They moved silently around him in the dark. He heard them whispering and giggling, during what he thought might have been the daytime, but at night their voices were different. They called out to him, begging for help. During this time, he would cover his ears and shout at them to stop, but they never listened. The first time it happened, he had buried his head in the pillow and sobbed. That was when the little girl came.

          The touch of her hand on his shoulder made him scream. He knew no one had come through the trap door above his head, and he was afraid to look around.

   “Hello,” she whispered. “Don’t be afraid. I live here too.”

Toby looked up at her. She was about his age, kind of pretty and a bit weird looking. She seemed to glow in the dark.

   “I never saw you before,” Toby said. “Where do you live?”

   “Over there,” she pointed to one of the shadowy corners. “I live in the dark. My name is Rachael”

   “How come I never heard you move or anything?”

   “I was a bit afraid, in case you were like the bad men.”

   “Did they bring you here?” He sat up in the bed and made room for her to sit down.

   “Yes. They took me away from my Mam and Dad and now I can’t go home,” her eyes were sad when she looked at him. “You don’t know the way, do you?”

   “No,” Toby looked up at the ceiling. “I think it’s out through the door up there, but there’s no stairs.”

   “I hate it here,” she followed his gaze. “It’s always cold, and I’m frightened.”

   “Here,” he lifted the quilt. “Get in, it’s warmer under here.”

She was right, Toby thought, as she cuddled up beside him. She was very cold.

   “How long have you been here?” He asked.

   “I don’t know, longer than the others.”

   “What others?”

   “The boys,” she looked at him. “They came here after me.”

   “Where are they?”

   “Over there,” she nodded to one of the dark corners. “But they won’t come out. They’re too afraid of the bad men.”

Toby shivered and looked into the darkness. None of this made sense. Why couldn’t he see the boys?

   “I’m afraid of them,” Toby pulled the quilt up to his face, until only his eyes were exposed.

   “The bad men?” The girl whispered.

   “Yeah, them too, but I mean the boys.”

   “They’re only boys,” she laughed.

   “Scary boys,” he was on the verge of tears.

   “Oh, you’re just silly,” she threw back the quilt and walked across the room, disappearing into the darkness.

For a moment, Toby thought she had left him forever, but she soon came back.

   “Come on,” she called over her shoulder. “He’s just a boy like you. Stop being such scaredy cats.”

Toby watched in amazement as the shadows took shape, and two boys peeped out from behind the girl. They were wary at first, but then one of them saw the Superman doll, and came over to where Toby sat.

   “Hey, cool,” he picked up the doll. “I used to have one like that.”

   “He’s my favourite,” Toby lost his fear. “But I have Batman and Robin too.”

   “Do you have the Batmobile?” The other boy came and joined them. “I have that. It’s cool, shoots rockets and everything.”

   “Yeah,” Toby said. “But it’s at home.”

At the mention of the word home, the boys grew silent, and even Toby had to swallow hard.

   “I wish we could go home,” the girl sat down on the bed beside them.

They all nodded.

   “I miss my mother,” she started to cry.

The boys were all on the verge of joining her, but they looked at one another and an unspoken agreement was reached, they would be strong, for the girl.

   Once they managed to calm her down, the hours flew by, as they swapped stories on how they came to live in the room. The boys, Paul and Raymond, were taken in much the same way as Toby. The girl, Rachael, was coming back from buying an ice cream from the van.

   “I dropped my cone,” she said, as though this was a greater crime.

They all gasped at this act of sacrilege, and agreed that the men, who had taken them, were very bad.

   “Why do they want us?” Toby asked.

The children looked at one another and Toby became afraid.

   “It’s bad, isn’t it?” He asked.

   “There are three men,” Paul spoke for all of them. “And they hurt you.”

   “No,” Toby whispered, drawing back a little on the bed.

   “They don’t hurt us anymore,” Rachael sought to appease him.

   “No,” Paul agreed, and then thought for a moment. “But they might hurt Toby though.”

   “Well, we won’t let them,” Rachael stood and placed her hands on her hips. “I’m sick of the dark and I want to go home.”

   “We all want that,” Paul said. “But there’s nothing we can do.”

   “I’m too frightened,” Raymond’s eyes were wide. “I hate them.”

   “I hate them too,” Rachael agreed. “But I wish we could do something.”

The boys stood. Raymond allowed the doll to slip from his fingers, and back onto the bed. Toby saw how truly frightened they were, and his stomach ached, when he thought what the men might do to hurt him.

   “See you,” Paul said, as he started to walk across the room, and back into the shadows.

   “Here,” Toby held out the doll to Raymond. “You can have a loan.”

   “Really?” He smiled for the first time and took the doll. “Thanks, I won’t break it or anything.”

Toby felt sad, as he watched Paul place his arm around Raymond’s shoulders, and lead him back in to the dark.

   “They really are scaredy cats,” Rachael huffed, and sat down on the bed.

   “Aren’t you frightened?” Toby was amazed by such courage, especially in a girl.

She thought for a moment, before answering.

   “I suppose I’m a bit afraid,” she agreed. “But I’m more afraid of the dark, and I miss my mother.”

   “I miss my mother too,” Toby said.

          Rachael was now a constant visitor, and Toby was used to her popping in and out. Once, when he was alone, he searched the corners of the room, but there was no one there. He felt along the walls, looking for a gap in the timbers, somewhere they could come and go through, but there was none. It was all a mystery and one the children were unable to explain. The boys came to see him now and then, but they never stayed very long. Toby knew they were too afraid, and he caught them looking fearfully at the trap door on many occasions. None of them would tell him about the things the bad men did to hurt them, and he knew it must have been something awful, because when he had a scab on his knee or elbow, he loved to show it off. He tried not to think about this, as it made his heart beat faster, and his stomach hurt. Another thing strange about the children was how they never ate anything. Though he offered to share his food, they always said that they weren’t hungry.

   Taking the milk out of the fridge, he drank from the carton. He knew his mother would never approve of this, but there were no cups or glasses. There was no sign of the others, and he was bored. There were some drawing pads and crayons on a table by his bed, and he found if he scrunched down beside the heater, its red light made it possible for him to see the paper. There were other drawings besides his, and he looked at the work the other children had done. Most of it was kind of sad, as even in the drawings of houses or dogs, there was always a picture of a child crying. Toby sighed and tried to remember the face of the man who had taken him. He was good at drawing, and within minutes, had an exact likeness of the man he had just got a brief glimpse of.

   “Hey, that’s him,” he hadn’t heard Rachael approach.

   “Did he take you too?” Toby asked.

   “No,” she knelt beside him. “But he’s one of the bad men.”

They both stared at the drawing a while, until Toby remembered there was something, he had to show her.

   “Look,” he reached into his pocket.

   “Oh, you found it,” Rachael picked up the tooth. “It fell out a long time ago, but it rolled away, and I couldn’t find it in the dark, so I didn’t get any money from the tooth fairy.”

   “Aw, that’s a pity,” Toby said, then added. “What if I put it under my pillow? The tooth fairy might think it’s mine and leave me the money.”

   “Brill,” Rachael clapped her hands. “We can split it.”

They were giggling as they placed the tooth under the pillow. It would be great if their plan worked. Though neither one knew what they would do with the money, or how they would spend it, they just thought it would be great fun to get one over on the tooth fairy.

   “Wait until I tell the others,” Rachael laughed. “They’ll be jealous.”

It was agreed Raymond would return the Superman doll at night, so Toby had something to cuddle up with. Though he had no concept of when day and night was, he judged it by when he felt tired and needed the doll. Sometimes, when he was alone and a little bit afraid, he thought he heard his mother calling him. The first time it happened he had shouted to her, but now he knew it was probably just his imagination. Still, when it happened, he closed his eyes and called out to her in his head, hoping she would hear him. He knew she was looking for him, and would never give up, and the other children’s’ mothers would be doing the same, so someone was bound to find them soon.

         It was a gut-wrenching moment, when they realised the tooth fairy had not fallen for their deception.

   “She probably knew it was old,” Toby looked down at the tooth.

Rachael took it out of his hand and threw it across the room.

   “Stupid fairy,” she stamped her foot. “Now the others will be laughing at me.”

   “Never mind,” Toby patted her back. “One of mine is a bit loose.

He opened his mouth and pointed with his tongue.

   “See?” He asked, as she looked in his mouth.

   “Yeah, but it’s only a bit wobbly,” she poked it with her finger.

   “Yuck,” Toby pushed her hand away. “You taste funny.”

   “No, I don’t,” she pushed him.

   “Yeah, you do, like cold, mud.”

   “No, I don’t,” she started to cry. “I’m not talking to you anymore.”

As he watched her disappear back into the shadow, Toby hoped she didn’t mean what she said. He was too proud to call after her and apologise, because she really did taste bad. Tired, he sat on the bed and waited. Outside in the night, an owl screeched its ghostly cry. It echoed through the cracks in the cottage walls, and all the way down into the cellar.

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The Wraith-chapter twenty-one

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on April 24, 2020
Posted in: Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Halloween, Haunted Houses, horror, insomnia, memories, monsters, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, twlight, Witchcraft, Witches, writers, writing. Tagged: Ghost Hunters, Ghosts, Gothic, Gothic novel, Haunted Graveyard, hauntings, monsters, revenge, wraith, writing. Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

   My dearest granddaughter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love, until the end of time

Your grandmother

Bethany

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

   “Hello.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “You were saying?” Tom asked.

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

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

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

When she finished speaking, she held up her hand.

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

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

   “May I see them?”

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

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

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

   “Could I go up there?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “It’s freezing up here,” he said.

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

He looked at his watch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The Wraith-chapter twenty

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on April 23, 2020
Posted in: books, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Halloween, Haunted Houses, horror, insomnia, letting go, monsters, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, twlight, Witchcraft, Witches, writers, writing. Tagged: burial mounds, Ghost Hunters, Ghosts, Gothic, Gothic novel, Graveyard, monsters, paranormal, revenge. Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “I thought you were staying off that?”

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

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

   “Do you want to talk?”

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

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

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

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

   “You did before.”

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

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

   “So, you say.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “I suppose there’s no news?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “Something like that,” he smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “Really?”

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

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

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

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

   “Well, it’s still going on.”

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

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

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

   “Why not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The Wraith- chapter nineteen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “Jill, are you up there?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “Get out,” Jill shrieked. “Now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Whisper from Heaven

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

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

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

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The Wraith-chapter eighteen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “No problem,” I assured him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “Want one?” he held the pot up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “I’m so sorry,” I patted his hand.

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

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

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

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

   “Of course, I understand.”

My tortured nerves screamed.

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

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

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

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

   “Paul, I met him earlier today.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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