The postman just delivered my hardback copy of Whispers. As I read the first page I had to pause and think about how honoured I am that so many of you are doing the same thing and reading my words. Looking forward to your reviews and do check out the competition that Steven is running on Facebook, so you can win your own signed copy of the book.
Whispers By Gemma Mawdsley
Step inside, if you dare and witness first hand the horror of the industrial schools. This is not something that happened in the time of Dickins. This horror belongs totally to the cruel Ireland of the 50s & 60s.
WHISPERS is now available on hard copy. To order your very own copy please follow the linkhttp://www.feedaread.com/books/Whispers-9781781762172.aspx (IMPORTANT – Due to problems with Google Chrome and converting the euro, this book can only be ordered through Internet Explorer or Firefox.)
Whispers
The “For Sale” sign creaked and did it best to stay aloft, despite the winds onslaught. Eileen watched from her bedroom window the leaves that scuttled across the garden path and traced their flight until they disappeared into the maelstrom of darkness. Her house was on the outskirts of the village and therefore deprived of the comforting glow of streetlights. She depended on the moon to light her way when she went outside, but tonight its rays were weak as the wind sent clouds scudding across its face.
“I’m weary Lord,” her sign echoed in the stillness of the empty room, as she crossed the bare floorboards to sit by the dead fire.
Like all houses built over two hundred years ago, each bedroom had its own fireplace, but it was many years since a fire had burned in any of the grates in Eileen’s house. At first, she used the excuse of her arthritis making it impossible for her to lift the heavy coal bucket up the stairs, but the truth was she had grown used to the cold and no longer felt its stinging touch upon her aged skin. An old patchwork quilt, made by her mother, served as her blanket since she no longer used the bed. The old rocking chair was kinder to her old bones and the softness of the quilt gave her comfort during the long wait, And waiting she was.
It was her nephew, Thomas who first suggested selling the house. As her only surviving relative it stood to reason he’d inherit it. The suggestion was not made directly to her, but to his wife on one of their rare visits. Eileen failed to see why anyone would be willing to buy the place with her in situ, so to speak, but Thomas went on about the money it would make and how welcome the extra income would be.
It was no use, she couldn’t rest. She got up and walked back to the window and stared out into the darkness. The garden had become overgrown of late and weeds dotted the cracked pathway. The fruit bushes, picked clean by the autumn wind and scavenging birds, stretched their brambles in all directions and sharp thorns gleamed white in the darkness. Eileen held her hands up to get a better look and shook her head in resignation at what she saw. The fingers that once tended the shrubs and planted the fruits were now as shrunken and gnarled as the tired trees. Still, with the right care, the garden could be brought back to life and it was the ideal place for children. Full of hidey holes and secret places in which to play and dream. They never had children, her and Fred and the house was much too big for them both. With six bedrooms it cried out for the sound of little feet, but the rooms remained closed, all except the one in which she now stood.
Rousing herself out of her self-pitying thoughts, she walked out onto the landing. Other than the crying of the wind, there wasn’t another sound to be heard. The stair carpet muffled her footsteps as she made her way down to the hallway. Dust coated the red floor tiles and the evidence of passing feet showed clearly. There was to be another viewing in the morning, the estate agent told Thomas and hopefully the prospective buyer would show an interest.
“I should hope they would,” Thomas said. “The price has been reduced four times already; it’s practically being given away.”
“I understand that sir,” Eileen heard the estate agent say. “But there is the matter of our little problem.”
Little problem indeed, Eileen glared at the man, imagine at her age being spoken of in such a way. She had to agree that she could be cantankerous at times, but so what? She was old and her bones ached. True, she had seen off more than a dozen prospective buyers, but only because they didn’t suit her. It would take someone out of the ordinary indeed to consider sharing her home with. It was the estate agents next words that made her ears perk up.
“Tomorrows viewer is a widow with four small children,” he said. “The price will appeal to her I know as her funds are limited. Who know?” He shrugged his shoulders. “She might not mind the intrusion.”
So now I’m an intruder in my own house, Eileen fumed, as she pushed open the door to the living room. The clouds cleared and moonlight flooded through the two, large bay windows. It was a huge room and perfect for a family. Only a few items of furniture remained, as Thomas had sold off some of the older bits along with her treasured ornaments.
“No one will want these old, antique pieces cluttering the place,” Thomas said. “I’m sure the new owners will want to put their own stamp on the rooms.”
What could she do, but agree? Eileen moved from room to room making sure everywhere was secure before going back upstairs. The wood on the rocking chair felt good and solid beneath her and the quilt gave her the extra comfort she needed at a time like this. All around her the house sighed and settled. A faint scratching sounded behind the skirting board signalling the presence of mice. This was something the new owner would need to hear about before they infested the place. She closed her eyes and listened to the sighing of the wind. When she opened them it was morning.
“It’s in good condition for its age and the garden is ideal for children.”
Eileen crept out onto the landing and peered over the railing. The estate agent was back and accompanied by the widow woman, whose children clustered around her. Two boys and two girls, Eileen counted a nice little family. The youngest child was about four, she guessed and the eldest about eight. Eileen didn’t realise as she studied them that the smallest child was watching her. The little girl smiled, when she caught her eye and waved her small hand. Eileen winked at her, before going back into her room.
“Can we explore, mummy?” One of the children asked.
Eileen didn’t hear the mother’s reply, but she could guess from the sound of footsteps on the stairs what it was.
“In here,” the whisper sounded outside her door.
She watched as the door slid slowly open and four small faces appeared.
“Come in, I don’t bite,” she ushered them inside.
They didn’t need any more prompting as they tumbled into the room and came over to where she sat.
“It’s so cold in here,” the little girl who smiled at her said.
“Yes, it is quite cold,” Eileen agreed, “but I’m used to it.”
“Is this your house?” The eldest boy asked.
“Yes, it is,” Eileen said. “What do you think of it?”
“It’s nice and big,” he said. “And the garden is huge.”
“Do you think you would like to live here?” She asked.
There were nods of assent all round and for the first times in years Eileen smiled. The next few minutes were spent in introducing themselves and regaling Eileen with stories about the old house. Footsteps sounded on the corridor outside as the estate agent showed their mother the bedrooms. When they reached Eileen’s room, the man made some excuse about needing something from the car, anything rather than confront the old woman.
“In here Mummy,” four-year-old Alice called. “Come and meet our new friend.”
The young woman’s face showed all the signs of her loss. Dark circles swooped beneath her eyes and her skin had a pallor best suited to a corpse. She halted in the doorway and looked from Eileen to the children and then back again.
“Come in my dear,” Eileen smiled at her. “There’s no need to be shy.”
She moved hesitantly into the room and sank into the chair opposite Eileen.
“Run along and explore the garden,” Eileen said to the children. “I need to have a word with your mother.”
After they had scampered, Eileen turned to the young woman.
“There’s always a snag, isn’t there my dear; when something is as cheap as this house.”
The woman nodded.
“I don’t see why my presence should make much difference to you,” Eileen continued. “There is a bedroom for each of you and I tend to stick to mine, so I don’t think we would be in each others way.”
“Yes, but,” the woman stammered.
“I quite understand if our sharing is out of the question, but think of the advantages.” Eileen said.
“What do you mean,” the woman asked.
“You have lost your husband and so have I that is one thing we have in common. Fred and I never had children, though we longed for them. I’m too old to help around the house in any way, but I could keep watch over your children for you.”
“I have to work,” the young woman said.
“Of course you do, but I will always be here for them. At least they won’t come home from school to an empty house and that would be one less thing for you to fret about and I know you are laden down with worry.”
“I am,” the tears the young woman fought to control spilled over.
Eileen pulled a lace handkerchief from the sleeve of the threadbare cardigan and passed it to the woman.
“You have a cry, it will do you good and when you’re feeling a bit better we can talk.”
And talk they did. Eileen listened as the woman; Aishling told her all about her husband’s accident and the worry of raising four young children on her own.
“You’re not alone any more,” Eileen said. “Now you go down and offer that upstart of an estate agent twenty thousand less that the asking price. He’ll take it,” she smiled at Aishling’s look of surprise.
“I’ll go down and do it now,” Aishling walked to the door and then stopped and looked back. “I’m so glad that you’ll be here when we come back.”
Eileen walked to the window and watched as Aishling spoke to the man. He made a great show of indecision, but after a phone call to Thomas a bargain was stuck. The children came running around from back of the house and she watched as they jumped up and down when their mother told them the news. Before they piled into the car, they all looked up to where she stood and waved. They would be back soon and the house would be once more filled with life. She couldn’t have imagined a more fitting family to share her home with and she had known the moment she first saw them that they were something special. After all, not everyone would want to share their new house with a ghost.
It’s been a busy, but productive week. My new novel Whispers went on sale at Amazon on Wednesday in ebooks and jumped millions of places overnight. The paperback edition will be available in about two weeks time. A big thank you to all my faithful readers and I look forward to reading your reviews on this. I will have a new ghost story for you on Friday next the 6 Th and the title above is a hint to its content. I’ll keep you guessing until then. Have a great week.
My latest novel Whispers is doing very well in America. Have a look at the link below.
He’d not succeeded that night, but he was no fool. He knew what he was up against in the old woman. There were many others not as strong, who would easily succumb to his promises and they were not so far away. The birdsong irritated him; the light slanting through the trees blinded him. He’d rest now and allow those of his legions who worked by day to do his bidding. He belonged to the night and would need to gather strength for the task ahead. For he was about to do something he’d not done in centuries; he was about to take on human form.
PROLOGUE
These stories are not meant to soothe you. There’ll be no tranquil closing of the book as eyelids droop and senses surrender to sleep. These sensations belong to another time, when you believed such things the work of fiction and the horror within them beyond the bounds of probability.
Now you’ve chosen to enter another world, a place where tales unfold from the pages of everyday life and Death. There’s no pretence and they require little imagination in the telling. The human monsters, and you will encounter a few, are real. At times one or more personalities combine, but each one is made up of man’s cruellest traits. I make no excuses for their depravity, they have no redeeming features. Sadly, we all know such loathsome creatures.
The dead choose to speak for reasons of their own and I allow them free rein. It takes a sensitive ear to distinguish the muffled cries from the spirit world, above those of the general hum-drum. It requires an open mind to realise internment beneath the cold earth is not the end.
So read on and listen as only you can to the voices from beyond the grave. Share with them the human emotions of love, hate, fear, revenge and in the end, the most important of all acceptance and forgiveness.
Try to ignore the shadowy corners of the room; there’s nothing there. They are what they appear to be, empty pockets of darkness. Sleep well.
Her mother named her after a saint, but in truth Annie was not a saint; neither was she a devil. She was just…different, in a time when it was dangerous to be so. The year was 1653, a time of great unrest, when the shadow of Cromwell’s forces moved over the land leaving death and destruction in their wake and bringing untold suffering to a once peaceful nation.
The sun had set on what was a very warm midsummer’s day inIreland. It no sooner disappeared below the horizon, than it was replaced by the full moon. The glowing red clouds left behind with the promise of a warmer day to come, reached out caressed the moon and turned it to blood. An uneasy quiet shrouded the countryside. Night creatures rose from slumbering to begin their nocturnal foraging, tiny grey bats swooped through the still air and the call of the night owl was heard from deep within the forests. It was a night like any other, until the wailing started.
The animals heard it first, picking up their ears and sniffing the air. The sound caused both fur and feather to rise. None of them waited to hear it reach a crescendo preferring to take cover in their dens, warrens and tree trunks. It was a sound to chill the blood of any listener. Starting with a sigh and rising to a mournful keen that cut into the soul. It was the lament of someone who’d known great sorrow and loss.
The people who heard its warning crossed themselves in fear. Some muttered a silent prayer for its intended victim before locking any open window and pulling the curtains closed, despite the cloying heat. Children tossed fitfully in their sleep sensing the cry. Farmers, who were still at work in the fields, left what they were doing and hurried home.
Those who understood its meaning dared not speak of it. Fearful glances were exchanged, televisions were turned up as loud as possible, but nothing could mask the cry. It invaded the air, crept through cracks and keyholes, it would be heard. There was nothing to stop it. Man, despite all his modern technology, was not adept to deal with such a thing.
Its voice had haunted countless generations of the O Brien family, warning them of a coming death, but it hadn’t been heard for many years. Now, it was back and with a vengeance. It continued all through the night only quieting with the coming of dawn. The old, who understood too well its voice, lay awake until the last notes faded in the lightening air. Never before had they heard its cry last for so long or be more powerful. Instinct told them this was to be no ordinary passing for its prey. The voice they heard wanted more.
She was finally awake. The Dark One’s curse was almost at an end. Gathering her waist length hair about her, she raked her fingers through it picking out dead leaves and bits of twigs. She’d lain in limbo throughout the centuries and was only allowed on the earth for a short time, to herald each death of that accursed family. This was what she’d waited for. He was the last male in his line and soon he’d be no more. All the evil and wickedness would be brought to an end and she could rest in peace. Her crying would cease once he was dead. She’d wrap herself around him, her arms the embrace of a cold lover and they’d return to the dark earth together. He’d no other choice; he was powerless to resist her. There is no escaping the cry of the Banshee
The voices of the island called to her and the rapping of long-dead fingers on the window pane drew her out from the warmth of her bed. Pushing the quilt aside, she stood and walked across the room. Her coat lay when she had carelessly discarded it, across the back of a chair and she was unaware when the surface beneath her bare feet changed from the soft wool of carpet to the cold floorboards. The storm, which was threatening all day, tonight flew in on blackened wings that darkened the water and carried within its roars the voices of a thousand souls in torment. Power lines were flung aside in its fury and trees bereft of spring foliage, bent gnarled claws towards the earth. Bymidnightall was quiet within the small hotel. The only sound came from the padding of her bare feet as she tip-toed down the stairs, aware of those around her whose sleep remained calm and dreams undisturbed. The wind tried to tear the front door from her grasp and she had to battle with its strength, sure that at any moment the knob would be wrenched from her hands and the sound of splintering wood and glass against the wall would be enough to wake the dead; the irony of this was lost on her. A force stronger than the wind had called her to the island. It promised an end to her quest for fulfilment and a release from the pills and alcohol that marred her life, she was powerless to resist.
The island lay enveloped in night. The moon hid behind leaden clouds and not a single light showed the way, but she knew that somewhere within that blanket of darkness a figure beckoned. A gust caught at her coat and powerful, invisible hands tried to pull her back, but she broke free and ran as fast as the wind allowed. She gathered the wool tighter around her hoping to find some warmth within its folds, but the very cold seemed to emanate from within her.
The gates of the Nunnery slammed shut as she passed and the well-worn latch clicked into place as she was once again denied sanctuary. She had lived this rejection before, not once, but a thousand times. Cowled figures, blacker than the night, stood watching from within, their eyes dark hallows in ashen faces. She no longer feared them, for she had known them in another time. Still, she felt in her heart their sorrow and loneliness, as raw as the earth under which their earthly bodies now lay. She could have turned back, but chose instead to follow the path of so many of her Sisters before her. Twice she slipped on the wet earth as she climbed the hill leading to the Abbey and she was breathless and shivering from cold and fear as she began the ascent to the Tor. When she reached the top, a single flame from a candle shone through the window of the writing room and she knew at once what was about to pass. She had heard such things whispered about late at night and thought the tales of missing Sisters, nothing more than pranks to frighten the other novices. As she walked, she relived their cries and gasps of horror until Mother Abbess’s stern words sent them running to their beds. She licked at the salty sweat on her upper lip and moved towards the door. The wound in the earth lay open and bleeding and she tried not to look into its black chasm. A leaf flew against her face, its touch on her cheek the slap of a cold, dead hand and she hurried inside. Her entrance was greeted by a scowl from the figure hunched over the writing desk as he cupped his hand around the candle flame to protect if from the wind.
“You’re late, Sister,” he said, pointing to a bench beside him.
She slipped down on to the hard oak and watched in silence as he went about his work, tracing delicate scrolls onto a sheet of vellum. Small, earthenware pots littered the work surface and their contents of, reds, blues, greens and gold, dripped down their sides and stained the wood beneath them.
“The colour is still not right,” he threw down the feathered nib and rubbed his forehead in irritation. “It has to be precise and such work demands sacrifice.”
He turned to her as though just remembering her presence.
“Hold out your arm, little Sister.”
She did as he asked, but her heart beat painfully against her chest as he picked up the dagger. Its cruel blade caught the candle light and its sting was sharp and deep when he brought it down on her wrist. The metal of the great goblet he used to harvest her life’s blood, felt cold against her fevered skin. When he was finished, she watched through dying eyes as powders were mixed with her blood. She saw his smile of satisfaction as he retook his seat, dipped the nib into the unholy brew and traced the red onto the serpent’s tongue.
gemmamawdsley 