The Wraith- Chapter Eight

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on April 11, 2020
Posted in: books, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Haunted Houses, horror, Paranormal, revenge, scary, twlight, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , . Leave a comment

CHAPTER EIGHT

         The next few weeks passed in a blur of activity as Jill settled into her new job. There were two doctors working out of the practise, Bill Williams a no-nonsense, loud, old-fashioned country doctor in his late sixties, whose brash manners did little to disguise his big heart, and who could be called on at any time of the day or night. Rita Fitzsimons was the exact opposite of her colleague. In her early thirties and so soft spoken that Jill had to strain to hear, she brought with her an air of quiet confidence that appealed to those of a sensitive nature. It soon became clear that her patient list was mostly made up of women and children.

   Jill’s first day at work was supervised by Claire, who stayed back during the lunch break to explain the filing system. The surgery was busy from the moment the doors opened, and this was the only time they had a chance to talk. Jill was curious to know why she was chosen for the job, considering the other two applicants were local women.

   “It’s very simple, my dear,” Claire explained. “One of them is a gossip, and while she might agree to keep the patients’ personal information to herself, the task would be quite beyond her, and she would hardly inspire confidence in those who know her acid tongue. The other woman is flighty and not to be trusted to stay in the job for any length of time. So, I merely suggested to the doctors you were the most fitting candidate to replace me.”

Jill smiled, aware that Claire’s suggestion, as she put it, would have sounded like an order. The few hours she spent with her that day left her in no doubt as to who oversaw the office.

   “I’m grateful you did,” Jill said. “I was going out of my mind with boredom and much as I love my son, I find it hard to exist on conversations about superheroes. It’s great to be back in the company of adults.”

   “I know what you mean,” Claire agreed. “I was only in my twenties with two small children when my husband died, and I couldn’t wait for them to start school so I could go back to work. Not just for the company, you understand, but for the financial security it gave me. I used to work here full time up to a couple of years ago.”

For the rest of the hour, they settled into a comfortable silence as they worked. Now and then Claire would offer an observation on one file or another, pointing out the patients who were very ill and the assorted malingers, who used the office as a meeting place to catch up with local gossip. Some of the worst cases came from the council estate, where lack of nourishment, coupled with a diet of drink and drugs, made the people susceptible to every virus going.

   “There are the odd few who demand home visits when they are perfectly capable of coming in,” Claire said. “But you will soon learn to tell the ones that cry wolf at the first sniffle.”

God, I hope I do, Jill thought, and that I don’t manage to kill someone.

Life at home improved a thousand-fold, especially since the arrival of the dogs. Realising Toby was let down enough during his short life, she kept her promise to take him to look at the puppies, and though she hoped the idea might have worn off, they managed to end up with three dogs instead of one.

   Liam, Toby’s friend, had drawn a crude map of how to get to the farm, and it proved surprisingly helpful, as she managed to find the place without too much effort. The old sheepdog was lying in the straw in the barn and surrounded by her litter. She lifted her head and wagged her tail when she saw them approach, and Jill was taken aback by the animal’s look of wide-eyed intelligence when she bent down to stroke her head. The puppies were bundles of black and white fur, and each one vied for attention from the stroking hands. Another dog, probably the father of the litter, came to inspect the visitors, but after sniffing around them, lost interest and wandered off again.

   “Those are the bitches,” Liam pointed out two of the puppies. “You can have one of them. My dad has sold the others.”

As if on cue, a jeep pulled up outside the barn. Tom, Liam’s father came in and scooped up the three males.

   “These are off to a lovely home,” he said, before carrying the struggling pups away.

Jill watched as the mother stood and followed him to the door of the barn. She couldn’t help but imagine how the dog’s heart must have felt as she watched part of her family being loaded in to the jeep. It was only when it was out of sight that the dog returned to her two daughters, and the look of resignation in her eyes made Jill’s heart ache.

   “Well, have you made your choice?” Tom came back in.

Though both pups were identical, Toby made a great show of choosing.

   “They really are lovely,” Jill said.

   “Aye, Bess was a good breeder,” he knelt and stroked the dog’s head. “But this will be her last.”

   “Is she too old?” Jill asked.

   “Aye, and a bit lame at the best of times,” Tom shook his head. “She’s not able for the herding anymore.”

   “So, she’s going in to retirement,” Jill smiled down at the dog.

   “Well, no,” Tom scratched his head. “She’s a working dog and no use to me. She’s going to need some work done on that leg, and I can’t bear the extra expense, not when there are healthy animals to look after.”

   “You mean…?” Jill was unable to say out loud what she was thinking. It was beyond her that a beautiful animal such as this should be put down, because she was no longer of use to her owner. “What about the other pup?”

   “There’s not many around here that would want a bitch, so…” the words were left hanging.

Jill realised that Toby had stopped playing with the pups and was now looking up at the farmer. He made no attempt to hide his horror at the man’s words, and she knew from his bright eyes that the tears were not far away. Cursing herself for being such a softy, she asked.

   “Would it be all right if we took the two pups?”

   “Yes,” Toby whooped in delight.

   “Please yourself,” Tom shrugged. “I’m just glad to get them off my hands.”

   “Thank you,” Jill shook his hand, as Toby struggled to pick up the pups.

He was anxious to put them in the car before his mother had time to come to her senses. He was strapped in the back seat and being licked to death, when Jill climbed in. She turned around and laughed as her son fought off the lapping tongues.

   “Thanks, Mam,” he was beaming with happiness.

   “You are going to have your hands full,” she said, before turning away.

Liam and his father stood waving them off, and she was at the gate when she looked in to the rear-view mirror. Bess, the puppies’ mother, was standing at the door of the barn watching her babies being taken away.

   “Christ,” Jill swore under her breath, before hitting the brake.

Climbing out, she walked to the side of the car and opened the back door. The old dog, sensing her intention, started to hobble towards her.

   “Is this okay with you?” She called to Tom, who was watching in amazement.

   “It’s your funeral,” he said.

   “Mam,” Toby was breathless with excitement. “You’re not, are you? And then as the old dog appeared at the door. “Oh brill, come on girl.”

He was engulfed in a sea of fur as the dog climbed in beside him.

   “I must be out of my mind,” Jill mumbled, as she climbed back in to the car.

She had just clicked her seat belt in to place when she felt the touch on her shoulder. A paw as big as a bear’s was resting there, and she looked in to the mirror and saw reflected the dog’s comforting gaze.

Patting the paw, Jill whispered. “I know, girl, we’ll be all right.”

And so, they acquired three dogs, Bess and her newly named pups, Checkers, because she was black and white like a checkerboard, Toby explained, and Dotty, because she had small, white tufts of fur dotted around her legs.

The dogs now resided on an old blanket in the kitchen. Jill had promised herself on the drive home that the dogs would be kept in one of the small outhouses, but it would soon be winter. The nights were getting colder and Bess had not long given birth, so once again she relented. It was obvious from the first night, when Bess had crept into her room and lay down beside the bed that Toby had gone downstairs and brought the pups up to sleep with him. Rather than be cross, she chose to ignore his disobedience, as he needed whatever comfort those bundles of mischief gave him. It became the norm to find the two pups back on their blanket when she came down each morning. It gave him immense pleasure to think he had got one over on her, and he was totally unaware of the hairs vacuumed off his sheets. The vet’s bill, for the vaccinations the dogs needed, had eaten up her first three weeks’ wages, but they were worth it. The nights were not as lonely now, as she fell asleep listening to the old dog’s steady breathing, and the strange creaks and moans the house made no longer frightened her, as the dog ignored them. Their effect on Toby was better than any tonic and his health improved, until he was as red-cheeked and glowing as his classmates.

   The only small blot on their new-found happiness, were the weekly letters that started to arrive from Joe. The first one was to let them know his new address and he enclosed a hundred euros. This small olive branch had left her shaking with temper, and brought all her feelings of loss and inadequacy surging back to the surface. At first, she considered keeping them from Toby, but then decided against it, as he had a right to know. His reaction surprised her, as apart from his delight on receiving the money, he seemed to have little interest in what his father had to say. Anxious to be out roaming the fields with the pups, he was chomping at the bit as she read. His days were now filled with chasing rabbits and squirrels and exploring the few acres they owned. The arrival of the neatly written envelopes meant nothing to him, and did not bring with them the same gut- wrenching effect they did to her. Though she would never write back, and burned each one as soon as she had read it, it annoyed her that she even took the time to read them.

   On the plus side, she managed during her weekends off and the afternoons when the weather stayed clear, to harvest her small crop.  They now had enough apples to last them the rest of their lives, along with rhubarb, turnips and carrots. Some of the crops had rotted in the ground and her grandmother’s diaries warned this would happen if the harvesting was left too late. She even bought some jars for pickling and was determined to learn how this was done. Sometimes, as she worked in the kitchen, it seemed to her that her grandmother was there guiding her hands. The words on the pages echoed the old woman’s voice and as the days passed, Jill became more confident as she blended and stirred her chutneys.

   Work was also going great, as she had come to know most of the women from the surrounding farms. Those with children were constant visitors to the surgery, and they passed by her in a sea of runny noses and sore throats. There were the odd few ruffians who made life difficult, from the blousy, red-faced women, who took advantage of a medical system they did not have to pay for, and who arrived at the surgery alone, or with a gang of snivelling children in tow, for the smallest of reasons, to the druggies who sat sniffling, as they waited for prescriptions and eyed the room for something worth stealing.  But other than that, she loved her job.

   The fact she finished at one, meant she could do her housework before she had to collect Toby from school. At first, she had tried to pass the time by window shopping, not wanting to waste the petrol on driving home and then back again, but it was boring and the freezing weather made it worse. Deciding it was a false economy and her time could be put to better use, she started to go home instead. She thought of continuing her research on the missing children, but decided life was difficult enough and abandoned the idea.

   October brought with it the first frosts of the year. To her amazement, the fires in the bedrooms lit without much trouble and she no longer worried about the cold. She had to buy a special guard for the one in Toby’s room, as the pups were fascinated by the flames, and once away from the watchful eye of their mother, were likely to burn themselves. Bess was now her constant companion and followed her from room to room as she worked. She made the ideal listener, as Jill recounted things that had happened during the day or told her about ideas she had for renovating the outbuildings into holiday homes.

   Looking in the rear-view mirror, she saw the old dog watching her as she set off for the school. She always allowed at least half an hour to get there and, as the drive only took about fifteen minutes, she arrived in plenty of time, but she had not bargained for what happened next. The small bump heralded the steady thump, thump of a flat tire. Cursing, she got out and surveyed the damage. The road was empty and devoid of any sign of life, so she had no other choice than to change the wheel herself. Her hands were raw from the cold when she was finished, and to her dismay, it took her over twenty minutes to do it. Not having a number for the school in her mobile, she couldn’t warn them she would be late. It would only be by a few minutes, she told her pounding heart and Toby would wait inside the bars of the playground as she had told him to do, if she was ever late.  He’ll be fine, she thought, I’m panicking for nothing. He will be waiting just like any other day.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            

The Wraith- chapter seven

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on April 10, 2020
Posted in: Ghost. Tagged: , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

CHAPTER SEVEN

          I was ten years old when we committed our first murder. I say we though I played no part in the actual act, other than do nothing to try and stop it. It was meeting that woman today made me recall it. I knew from the moment I set eyes on her she was going to be trouble. It was nothing she said, but something in the way she looked at me, as though her eyes could see my very soul. If I have a soul. I’ve always imagined people like me are set apart from others. Anyway, back to the murder.

  Three years passed since my initiation into Christy’s exclusive club. We’d taken to calling ourselves Shadows. We blended in well when the need arose and there were many such times. Christy was bored, the assaults on our bodies no longer thrilled him and he was hungry for new blood. Tony, a new boy seemed the perfect candidate to join our little band, but we were proven wrong. He resembled me, as I was when I first arrived at the school, lost, frightened. Feeling a little bit abandoned by those he loved. He welcomed Christy’s attention in the same way I had and held onto the hand extended in friendship like a drowning man. But he was different from me.

His initiation didn’t go as smoothly, and Freddy and Christy had no choice but stuff rags into his mouth to stop his cries. They didn’t intend to kill him, but the rags coupled with the pressure of his face being pressed into the filthy bed, cut off his air. They were too intent on what they were doing to realise he wasn’t breathing. When they did, it was too late. I wasn’t there when it happened, though I knew about it. My only involvement was in moving the body.

   Freddy came to fetch me, and I knew from the look on his face something was wrong. There was no need for explanation. He came bursting through the door of the room, disturbing my classmates and drawing a stern look from the teacher. This time of the day was a free period, I’d chosen to stay back to attend an additional art class, as I’d no stomach for what was about to happen. Excusing myself, I followed him out to the woods. The memory of that day is so vivid my heart rate increases as I write. Sound and smells assail brain no matter how hard I try to hold them back.

It was close to winter. I remember the cold cutting through the thin cotton of my white shirt sleeves. I’d forgotten to take my jacket, and I cursed my oversight, as I tried to rub life in to my frozen arms. The track leading to our den was leaf-strewn and slippery and I remember kicking aside the clusters of reds and gold. The trees were stripped bare by the biting wind and the branches were empty except for the dark clumps of the crows’ nests dotting them. The noise of the birds’ cries was amplified, and I heard the cawing overhead. I heard the shouts of the boys on the football field and, the swish of car tires on the damp road. I’m forgetting the reason for my story. Oh, yes, the murder.

    Christy’s face was wet with sweat when I arrived at the shed. Freddy was moving too fast to ask him what the problem was, and I’d become used to obeying their orders and commands.

   “He’s in here,” Christy said, and moved back to let me enter.

I prayed they didn’t want me to take part in the assault on his body and stood looking down at the still, prone figure. I never enjoyed the act and suffered their demands in silence. This made them think I didn’t object to their pawing my skin, but they were wrong. Sad to say their actions blighted my body and I’ve been impotent all my life.

   As I waited for the expected slap on the back urging me on, my eyes surveyed the small, white body on the makeshift bed. There were thin streaks of blood on his buttocks. I remember the harshness of its colour in the dim, half-light of the shed’s interior. There was also some on the tail of his shirt and the waistband of his underpants. Strange how a colour can remain with you, as this is how I recall that day, steeped in redness.

   “Is he dead?”

The question startled me, and I turned around in alarm and looked at its owner. It never dawned on me the boy was dead. I thought like me, he was too ashamed to move or look up.

   “What do you mean is he dead,” I asked Christy, “why would he be dead?”

   “Look, then,” he mumbled.

I leant over and shook Tony’s shoulder.

   “Come on, it’s o.k.” I said, “You can get up now. No one’s going to hurt you.”

His body turned to stone in the brief time it laid there. I turned him over and jumped back as his, staring eyes came into view. I’d never seen death before well, not this sort of death. I’d seen my mother at the funeral home, when the embalmer’s work was done, and the surroundings were clinical. But there in that unforgiving shed, filled with its tattered array of oddments and reeking of mustiness, it was frightening. It was made more so by the look of terror in Tony’s eyes and the tear- track on his cheeks. The dirty rags protruded from his mouth and spilled down onto the front of his school jumper like filthy swear words tumbling from his lips. I reached over to remove them but was stopped by Christy’s hand on my arm.

   “Don’t touch them,” his whisper was urgent.

Freddy came up beside us and we stayed looking down at the body.

   “What’re you going to do?” I asked.

   “What are we going to do, you mean,” Christy’s voice was a snarl.

I knew better to deny any involvement in the death, as I knew the repercussions would be terrible. I was as much to blame.

   “You go outside,” Christy pushed me towards the door. “See if the coast is clear.”

   “What’re you going to do?” I asked, again.

   “We’ll carry him deeper into the woods.”

I was shivering; more from fright than cold, as I walked out into the watery sunlight. To my heightened senses, it seemed all sound ceased as I looked through the trees in search of life. When I was sure there was no one to witness what was about to happen, I signalled. Christy and Freddy came stumbling out carrying Tony’s body. Neither of them bothered to pull his pants up and his buttocks scraped the floor of the wood every time they grew weary. With me as lookout, we traced a path through the trees until we came within yards of the road.

   “Here’s fine,” Christy said, as they threw the body down.

It landed with a soft thud and we gathered leaves and covered it over.

   “You should’ve taken the rags out of his mouth,” I said. “The police might trace them back to the shed.”

   “You do it,” Christy pushed me towards the mound.

   “Why, me?” I stood my ground. “You put them in there, you take them out.”

   “Don’t get fuckin’ smart with me,” His eyes blazed, and I grew weak under his stare.

I knelt beside the pile of leaves and tried to remember which way the body was facing. I brushed aside the leaves from where I imagined his head was. My aim was good, and the rags came into view. They were wedged firmly between Tony’s teeth, and I pulled hard to remove them. As they came free so did the air trapped in his lungs, I know that’s what it was, but at the time, it seemed to us he’d taken a breath. I heard the others swearing as I scuttled back on my bottom, and I knew they were standing behind me waiting for the mound to heave. When nothing happened, I gathered my courage and crawled back to the where he lay. Brushing aside some more of the leaves, I placed my hand on his chest, praying I’d feel it move, but there was nothing.

   “Come on,” Christy whispered, and by the time I looked around they were running through the trees.

   I stayed long enough to cover the body and then followed them. My pants stuck to my legs with sweat, but to my shame I’d wet myself. Christy and Freddy waited for me by the shed.

   “We have to get our stories straight,” Christy pointed at my hand. “And get rid of those.”

I became aware that I was holding the bundle of dirty rags. The realisation sent me hurrying to the nearest tree for support, as the terror of what happened spewed from me. In the past, the others would’ve ridiculed my actions and the dark, wet stain on the front of my trousers. Today was different. They were too intent on covering their tracks to pay attention to me. After a hurried and hushed conference in the shed, we made our way back to the school.

   “Where have you three been,” the headmaster met us in the hall. “Up to mischief I bet?”

   “Gathering conkers, sir,” we chorused in unison and pulled handfuls of the reddy-brown chestnuts from our pockets.

   “Very well,” he looked down at our muddy hands. “Go and wash up. It’ll soon be time for supper.”

I admit sharing in the others’ sly smiles of victory as we climbed the stairs. Once I’d changed out of my wet pants, it was easy pretending nothing untoward had happened and everything was as it should be. I didn’t bargain on the restless dreams and the nightmares that continued to haunt me throughout my life.

The arrival of the police next day had the school buzzing. Tony’s absence was noticed at roll call, as he’d no friends’ other than us. The roars of the headmaster at those who shared his dorm, for not noticing his bed hadn’t been slept in were met with indifferent shrugs. We’d been left pretty much unattended as the teachers combed the woods and we watched from the classroom windows as they came back ashen faced. Christy winked at me as we passed in the hall and I remember how my stomach churned with excitement at the thought of being involved in such a secret.

   We were confined to our dorms for the rest of the day. For once I was included with the other boys as we speculated what was happening. Some said Tony ran away or was kidnapped, but this was dismissed by those who knew his family as rubbish. They weren’t rich enough for anyone to kidnap him. The sound of sirens sent us rushing out into the corridors as the police arrived. Those not privy to what happened knew it was something serious. I still recall the boys’ faces as the blue light of the car’s beacon cut across them; each one ashen and set in stone. The teachers had their hands full trying to keep over three hundred curious boys in check.

   By mid-afternoon an incident room was set up in one of the study halls. Christy, Freddy and I were offered to the investigating officers as the boys closest to Tony, so we were summoned first. I was the last of the three to be called and the way was paved by the other two. The detective in charge was kind and took my trembling hands for nothing more than the fright of a ten-year-old.

   “Now, son,” he smiled. “There’s nothing to be frightened about. I just want to ask you a few questions about your friend Tony Quinn.”

   “Did he run away?” I asked, wide-eyed.

   “No, no,” the man’s face grew serious. “I’m afraid it’s much worse.”

   “Did he get knocked down by a car?”

   “No, but I’m afraid he was badly hurt.”

   “Is he in hospital?” I was enjoying the man’s discomfort.

   “Your headmaster will explain it to you later, now back to my questions,” he sat down beside me. “Did Tony ever talk about running away?”

   “Yeah, he was always saying he would,” I said.

   “Wasn’t he happy here?”

   “Naw, he missed his mother,” I giggled behind my hands. “He was a bit of a Mammy’s boy.”

   “I see,” the detective shook his head. “You can go now.”

I knew my answers were in keeping with those of my friends, and the picture we painted was one the police suspected all along. Tony was murdered by someone he met in his attempt to hitch a ride home. It didn’t bother us that his body was found so close to the school, as this was before DNA testing and anyway, who’d suspect three young boys not yet in their teens?

   Though I’d no stomach for the actual murder, it was the weeks of turmoil gave me a taste for the excitement. Knowing we were cleverer than all the grownups made us cocky, but not to the point of boasting. That was done among us, long after the investigation were called off and we were again allowed to roam through the woods. To this day, that’s what spurs me on. The thrill of the chase.

The Wraith- chapter six

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on April 9, 2020
Posted in: books, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, gloom, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, horror, Paranormal, revenge, scary, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

CHAPTER SIX

        Jill scanned the situations vacant column of the local paper. There was usually very little on offer in that area, other than shop assistant or garage cashier and she needed something to fit in with Toby’s school hours. Then she saw an ad for part time doctor’s receptionist, and right in the center of the village. She checked her watch; it was still only three o clock well within the specified hours of the ad, so she keyed the number into her mobile. As she listened to the ringing on the other end, she watched the school yard for sign of the children emerging. Today she was lucky and secured a parking place right outside the gates, so Toby would see her if she was talking on the phone. The voice that answered was soft spoken and welcomed the enquiry. After Jill had listed her qualifications, she was invited for an interview the following morning. Though she held out little hope of getting the job, sure it would go to someone local, she was glad to be going back into the real world for a while. Her existence over the past few months had seemed surreal, as she was used to working, and while the house demanded a lot of her time, it was now in order and she was bored.

   Coupled with that, they were both tired of eating the cheap, store-branded products her budget allowed, and even though Toby could live forever on chicken nuggets and burgers, she could not. Deciding she would keep the interview a secret, not wanting to disappoint him, she grinned as he came through the gates of the school.

   “Hi, Mam,” he smiled, noticing her good mood.

   “Hi, how was school today?”

   “Boring,” he sighed, looking out the car window, and then, recognising someone on the opposite side of the street, waved.

Jill leaned forward to see who he was waving at and her smile vanished. Mr Keane, his art teacher stood on the pavement. When he saw her, he nodded, before walking away.

   “I’ve been meaning to ask you about your teachers,” she tried to make her question sound light. “What are they like?”

She was watching the road for a break in the traffic, and unable to see his face as he answered.

   “Mr Jackson’s, o.k.” she could imagine his shrug of indifference.

   “Was that him just now?” She pretended not to know.

Toby was with her when she enrolled him in the school, and he thought that she had only met the head teacher.

   “Naw, that’s Mr Keane, he does art.”

   “Oh, what’s he like?”

   “He’s cool, he lets us paint whatever we like, and he never shouts or gets cross. I wish he was my teacher all the time.”

   “Do the other children like him?”

   “Some do, some say he weird, but I don’t think so. I think he’s just nice. He talks to me, you know, about stuff.”

   “Yes,” she felt the familiar knot of fear in her stomach.

She was overreacting, the memory of the old newspapers still fresh. Though the cleaning of the house kept her busy, the disappearance of the children was never far from her mind, and the certain knowledge the time span of their disappearance had come full circle again. If another child was to go missing, then according to the dates on the newspapers, the time was now. I’m being ridiculous, she thought. If there was a paedophile in the area, he could be dead now or have moved somewhere else, and anyway, why did she always imagine her son the target? I’ll have to get my act together. She glanced over at her son, as they drove down the lane to the house.

   The doctor’s surgery was bright and airy, with none of the clinical smells associated with such a place. The waiting area was clean and tidy, and she noticed as she waited for the interview, that the magazines were all new and not the usual dog-eared ones she had come to expect. There were two other women before her, and her heart sank when she saw them. Her appointment was for nine thirty and the surgery did not open for business until ten, so they were obviously there for the same reason. Her eyes scanned the pages of the magazine she held, not seeing the words, but hoping to look nonchalant.

   The first woman emerged from the doctor’s office and gave her a tight smile, as she left. Once the second candidate entered, Jill was left alone with her thoughts. The interviewer seemed pleasant, a well-groomed woman in her sixties, who smiled at Jill’s anxious, pale face. Jill was wearing what she regarded as her business suit, a black wool jacket and skirt. It had cost her a fortune but had seen her through years of meeting and office receptions, so it was worth it. It was looser now than the last time she’d worn it, the stress of losing Joe and the move was the cause. She hoped the white blouse was not too prissy. Toby questioned her about the outfit that morning, and she pretended she was just signing them on with the local doctor and wanted to look smart. After assuring him for the tenth time she was not sick, he grudgingly climbed out of the car.

   “Miss Purcell,” Jill looked up as her name was called.

She was so lost in thought; she didn’t even hear the other candidate leave.

   “Yes,” she stood, and followed the woman into the office.

   “I’m Claire O’Regan,” the woman held out her hand.

   “Pleased to meet you,” Jill shook it, and sank into the chair that was offered.

   “I would like to take a quick look at your C.V, if I may?”

Jill handed over the documents and waited as the woman read.

   “It seems you are overqualified for our little office,” Claire smiled.

   “Yes, I know what you mean, but there has been a change of circumstances.”

Claire listened as Jill outlined what brought her to the area. She told her about Toby, and how the job would fit in with his school, making it ideal for her. When she finished, Claire explained what the job entailed. The surgery was open from ten to one each day, this was the part of the shift that she normally covered, but the ill health of one of her daughters, meant that she would needed someone to stand in for her for at least six months. The afternoon shift, two to four, was covered by Marie Burke. The work was easy enough, taking appointments, filing and typing up notes.

   “It sounds ideal,” Jill said, but the memory of the other two candidates made her think she was unlikely to get it.

   “I will be speaking to the doctor as soon as he gets here,” Claire said. “The sooner I get someone to take my place the better. I am very anxious to leave, and I need someone to start straight away. Could you start in the morning?”

   “Yes, of course,” Jill said, “I drop Toby off a school at ten to nine, so it would be no problem.”

   “Well,” the woman rose and held out her hand. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you.”

Jill smile and shook it, not sure if she was wishing her goodbye forever.

         The supermarket was crowded that morning. The next stop was the post office which was also a newsagent, and she searched along the shelves for Toby’s favourite comic. There was a free toy with it that week he said, not really expecting he would get it. It still amazed her how accepting he was when she told him that they could no longer afford the things he had once taken for granted. There were no tantrums or tears just a quiet acceptance that things were no longer the way they used to be. She smiled, as she passed over the money for the comic, and asked that it be wrapped in a paper bag, so he would be surprised when he took it out. The next stop was the butcher. She bought enough meat for three days dinners and was carrying her shopping back to her car, when her mobile rang. Dumping the lot down onto the bonnet, she fumbled in her bag, hoping it wouldn’t ring off before she managed to find it.

   “Hello,” she answered, and recognised the voice of the woman who had interviewed her on the other end.

Expecting to hear the excuse she had found someone more suitable for the job, Jill went silent for a moment, thinking she had not heard right.

   “Jill, are you still there?” Claire asked.

   “Yes, I am, I mean, thank you,” Jill was too surprised to think straight.

   “Good,” she heard the smile in the woman voice. “So, I’ll see you at nine in the morning?”

   “Yes, oh yes, you will. Thank you again.”

Her hands shook as she hung up, and she was smiling as she retrieved the shopping. The drive home passed in a blur of planning as she imagined the difference the extra money would make to them. The mornings she had come to dread spending alone, would now be filled with activity, and the job would help her to get to know her neighbours better.

   The house was cold, as she had not had time to light the fire in the kitchen. Now she set about it with renewed vigour. Walking across the hall, she turned the television on; the noise company as she worked. Changing out of her suit, she made the beds and tidied the two rooms they used. The air was icy up and she shivered, vowing to take a chance on lightening the fires that weekend. If she lit them during the day, at least she could gauge the ventilation, before they went to bed and avoid killing them both from carbon monoxide. She tried to imagine Toby’s face when she told him her news and she was singing along to a jingle as she peeled and chopped the vegetables for the beef stew, an old favourite. God, she realised they are already advertising toys for Christmas.

   The coming of the season no longer filled her with dread, as she would be able to afford the toys he was hinting about. She had become quite adept at using the open fire and she hung the pot on a hook and swung the blackened arm over the flame. There was an old bottle gas cooker in one corner of the kitchen, but she was wary of using it, because of the expense. Anyway, it made her feel closer to her grandmother when she cooked like this, and maybe it was just her imagination, but she was sure the food tasted better.

    She had the school run down to a fine art now and knew if she arrived fifteen minutes before the bell, she was sure of a good space. Hers was the first car to arrive and after she parked, she ran across to the post office to buy the evening paper. She was just coming out the door when she came face to face with Mr Keane.

   “Chilly day, Miss Purcell,” he lisped.

   “Yes, indeed, very cold.” She tried to walk past him.

   “I was talking to a farmer this morning,” he continued, intent on engaging her in conversation. “He told me that snow was not far off.”

   “Really?” She tried to sound interested. “It seems very early in the year for snow.”

   “These men are used to the ways of the land,” he tapped the side of his nose, conspiratorially. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if what he says comes true.”

   The clanging of the school bell gave her an excuse to walk away. God, he gives me the creeps. She thought of his bony fingers and the flecks of coloured paint buried beneath his nails.

   Toby was one of the first at the gates, and to her surprise he had another boy in tow.

   “This is Liam,” he introduced him. “His dog had five pups and he said I can have one for free,” he added.

   Jill looked at the small boy, who stood beaming back at her.

   “What kind of dogs are they?” She asked.

   “Collies, black and white. My Dad doesn’t want to keep the bitches.”

Typical, she thought.

   “He says we can go and see them at the weekend,” Toby said, and his voice rose to whining plea. “Can we, Mam, please?”

   “We’ll see,” she motioned at him to get in.

   “All right,” he punched the air, thinking that her lack of refusal meant yes, and she realised, as he did, that it probably did.

All he could talk about on the drive home was the puppy. What he would name it and where it would sleep. She knew the comic she had bought would be poor substitute for a real, live dog, but it pleased her to see him so happy.

   “I have some news,” she managed to get in between his chatter. “I got a job.”

She explained what she would be doing and the hours she would work. When she was finished, he was quiet for a moment.

   “That’s cool, Mam,” he said. “You got a job and I got a dog. I’m glad things are getting better.” She was relieved that he didn’t add, at last.

The Wraith- chapter five

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

CHAPTER FIVE

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

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

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

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

   “He’s in my school,” Toby added.

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

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

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

   “What are you eating?”

   “Toffee,” he opened his mouth.

   “Where did you get it?”

   “Mike gave it to me.”

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

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

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

   “And the day he brought the skip.”

   “He’s still a stranger.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pausing in the doorway, she looked back at him.

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

   “I love you too,” he blushed.

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

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

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

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

   “Mrs Purcell?” He held out his hand.

   “It’s Miss,” she blushed.

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

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

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

   “You said you were worried about Toby?”

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

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

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

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

   “That would be great, thank you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Jackson had informed him of her unmarried status.

   “Yes, hello,” she smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “When does he say this?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Wraith-chapter 4

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

CHAPTER FOUR

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “What seems to be the trouble?”

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

   “Are you fuckin listening to me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “You called me here, remember?”

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

   All her anger was transferred from her husband to him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “You have enough money for beer.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Wraith-chapter three

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

 

CHAPTER THREE

 

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

 

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

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

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

  

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

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

 

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

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

  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Wraith-chapter 2

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

CHAPTER TWO

 

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

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

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

“Oh,” he looked up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

The Wraith – Chapter 1

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

 

                                                                      CHAPTER ONE

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her love was not enough. He needed his father.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Wraith, prologue

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

 

 

                                                                   The Past

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

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

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

“I’m not going to struggle.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All Hallows – Chapter 11

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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