Hi Everybody
It’s been a very busy few months and I haven’t had much time to write my blog, but fear not. I will be posting Part One of my latest ghost story, on Thursday morning 22nd. I hope you enjoy reading it and may I take this opportunity to wish all my readers a very happy Christmas and let’s hope 2012 is kinder to all.
Witch’s Hallow Part 2
Sarah felt the fine hairs on the back of her neck stand and she knew without turning round that he was behind her. Her hand shook as she placed the last bundle of vervain into her basket and her heart beat painfully against her breast as she straightened up.
“Trespassing again, Miss Cleary?”
She looked up into the dark eyes of Fabian Fitzpatrick, the Lord’s son and heir to the land she stood on.
“I’m not trespassing,” Sarah’s voice was hoarse from fear. “The head gardener said I could take any of the plants that grow outside the herb garden.”
“Oh, he did, did he,” he started to circler her; his eyes tracing down the slim lines of her body. “Well, unfortunately for you, the head gardener has no say in the running of the Hall. You will have to be punished, you know?”
Sarah looked towards the wood and the promised shelter of the trees. If she could make it that far, she would be safe. She knew every trail and gully and he would not be able to keep up with her once she reached the trees.
“Don’t even think about it,” his fingers clamped like a vice on her wrist. “You’re going to prison this time.”
“Please let me go,” Sarah tried to pull away. “I haven’t done any harm and I won’t come back here again.”
He pulled her closer to him until their faces were almost touching. Sarah smelt the scented water he used to anoint his skin and the faint trace of port, left over no doubt after a hearty lunch.
“I might be persuaded to let you go if you give me something in return,” his meaning was clear as his lips descended on hers.
“No,” Sarah screamed and pulled away.
“You should be honoured I even touch you,” fire raged in his eyes. “I’ll teach you some respect for your betters.”
Sarah cried out again as he threw her down on the grass. She gasped, as he threw himself on top of her and began to pull up her skirts.
“Stop,” she beat at his head, his back, but the impact of her hands had no effect. “Please, I’m begging you, stop,” her sobs echoed through the still air.
Sooty, who was busy chasing a butterfly, heard the sound of her mistress’s distress and set off running. She never faltered when she saw the man lying on top of Sarah and she pounced onto his back and raked her claws across his neck. It was now Fabian’s turn to scream and he forgot all about his assault on Sarah, as he brought a hand up to feel his wounds.
“Jesus Christ,” he looked in horror at his blood-stained fingers.
He pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket to stem the blood and as he did so, Sarah managed to scramble out from beneath him. Even in her terror, she remembered to pick up the basket containing the life-saving herbs and then ran towards the wood. Sooty ran beside her, aware of the danger they were in. Fabian Fitzpatrick stopped what he was doing and watched their flight. He hated Sarah with a passion that knew no bounds, but he desired her even more and this added fuel to the fire of his hate. She was not getting away from him this time.
Sarah’s long hair flew around her as she ran and the wicker basket bounced against her side, but she didn’t feel the pain. She could hear the sound of his footsteps behind her and the snarling sounds he made as he pounded through the grass. Oh god, help me, Sarah prayed, but as in all such times of need, there was no one listening. She screamed, as his hand grabbed her hair and she was thrown against the nearest tree trunk. The impact her body made against the wood took her breath away and the waves of pain that flowed through her back told her she had broken some of her ribs.
“You’ll never escape me,” Fabian’s body crushed her against the trunk and the weight on her shattered ribs made the pain roar.
Sarah fainted and when she slumped in his arms, Fabian smiled. He could already taste the victory of her deflowering, as he threw her down among a bed of fallen leaves and pine needles. Sarah groaned, when she felt his weight on her and tried to push him away, but she was powerless. As consciousness returned, she saw the dark shape of the cat renew its attack and for a moment the pressure on her body ceased. As the cat leaped, Fabian reached out a hand and caught it in mid flight. Sooty yowled and tore at the fingers circling her body, but she was no match for the brute force of the man as he threw her against one of the trees. Her agonising scream, as every bone in her small body shattered, made the nesting birds take flight and their cries of confusion mingled with those of the dying cat.
“Sooty,” Sarah sobbed, as she reached out her hand to touch the small paw nearest to her.
The cat blinked once before closing her eyes forever and Sarah felt her only friend’s life force drain away from beneath her fingers. The dreadful weight was on top of her again, as Fabian renewed his assault. Sarah sobbed, as she felt his nails raked along her thighs, but her cries for mercy were lost on him. Pain tore through her body as he ravaged her and the look on his face made her stomach heave. She turned away and looked at the body of her fallen friend. The slight breeze sent tiny waves ruffling through the cat’s soft fur and made it seem like she was breathing, but she was not. Sarah was no longer aware that the pressure on her had eased and she never heard him walk away; her body was not the only thing that was torn, her mind was also damaged, if only for a short time. Perhaps, this was nature’s way of helping her to cope with what happened. For a moment time seemed suspended and the silence that enveloped her was tremendous. There was nothing, no bird song, no breeze, just the afternoon sunlight filtering through the trees and the terrible sadness of knowing that her life would never be the same again. As reason returned, Sarah groaned and sat up. Blood caked her thighs and as she bundled her petticoat to stop the flow, she became aware of the fire that burned between her legs. She was sobbing as she picked up Sooty’s broken body and cradled it to her. Her eyes scanned the floor of the wood until she found her basket and she laid the cat inside. She no longer cared about the fallen herbs and she left them to lie among the rotting foliage. Each breath she took was agony, as she limped along, using the trees for support. The short walk to her cottage seemed endless, as sweat soaked her body with each wave of pain.
Once inside, Sarah put the basket on the table and stumbled towards the cupboard that housed her collection of potions. With shaking hand she found the bottle she needed and brought it to her lips. She drank deep of the foul-tasting liquid and then made her way to the next room and lay down on the bed. Tears ran down her face, as her mind flew to her dead friend and the terrible consequences that Fabian’s assault might bring. The pain in her chest eased as the herbs did their work and she closed her eyes. When she woke it was dark.
The ale house was alive with laughter and music. Fabian made his way through the crowd to join his friends, stopping now and them to share a joke or make some snide remark to those already well in their cups.
“You’re late tonight,” John Richards, his lifelong friend and the son of the local squire said, as he pushed a tankard of ale across the table.
“I took my time over dinner,” Fabian picked up the mug. “My father was in one of his rare good moods and I have something to celebrate.”
“Oh, yes?” John laughed at his friend’s air of mystery. “And what might that be, pray tell?”
“It’s two things actually,” Fabian took a swig of the ale. “But I’ll tell you the least of them first.”
He went on to tell John about the news he’d just received from his father. Fabian was the heir to most of the land in the district and this should have made him a very valuable prize for any mother in search of a husband for her daughter, but this proved not to be the case. Any suggestions his father made to those with suitable, eligible daughters were ignored or kindly refused, as his son’s reputation reached the ears of those in polite society. No one wanted a rake as a son-in-law, no matter how much money he brought to the table and with Fabian now in his twenty-eighth year, Lord Fitzpatrick was losing hope of ever bouncing a grandchild on his knee. This was the reason why Fabian was in such good spirits that night, he explained to John. A match had been made with a local merchant’s daughter. It was quite a step up for her to marry into royalty and her dowry was a pleasing one. The fact the young woman in question was pleasing to the eye was not lost on her future husband and there was much celebrating as he shared the news of his coming nuptials in the ale house. So much so that they lost all track of time as the alcohol flowed and it was late into the night when they finally left the warmth to make their way home. They could barely keep upright in the saddle as they rode along and despite his inebriated condition; John suddenly remembered his friend’s words from earlier that evening.
“You said you had two things to celebrate,” he hiccupped.
“What?” Fabian turned to him bleary-eyed. 
“Tonight, when you came in to the ale house, you said you had two things to celebrate,” John reminded him. “What was the second one?”
For a moment Fabian was thrown by his friend’s question and then it dawned on him. By now they had reached Oakwood Hall and Fabian suggested they carry on their celebrating inside his home. Both men slid out of the saddle and stumbled their way inside. The slam of the great door closing behind them brought the butler running in his nightgown.
“Bring us a couple of bottles of port,” Fabian ordered the sleepy man. “And then bugger off back to bed.”
The butler hurried to the wine cellar and quickly decanted three bottles of port. The young master was known for his bad temper and it would not do to keep him waiting. He carried a tray with the port and glasses back into the drawing room and placed it on a side table.
“If that will be all, sir,” he asked.
“I thought I told you to bugger off,” Fabian swatted him away.
The relief was evident in the man’s face as he glided out of the room.
“Don’t keep me waiting,” John took a gulp of the ruby liquid. “What’s you second piece of news.”
Fabian grinned, and told him about Sarah and, as he saw it, the high jinks of that afternoon.
“I don’t believe it,” John’s flushed face turned pale at the news.
“You can take my word for it,” Fabian said. “The proud Miss Cleary had no longer any reason to act so grand.”
John stayed silent as the full impact of the news set in. Like many of the eligible men in the district, he had a soft spot when it came to Sarah, and it wounded him to think of her being misused in such a way.
“You’ve gone quiet,” the laughter left Fabian’s eyes. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought of doing the same thing yourself?”
“I have not,” John shot up in his chair. “You are a cad and I want nothing more to do you with.”
“Are you serious?” Fabian stood up to face him. “You’re no saint; what right have you to judge me?”
“I may not be a saint, but I’d never stoop that low,” John was shaking with anger, as he placed his wine glass on the table. “I hope for your sake that your father doesn’t find out what you’ve done.”
Fabian watched his friend’s back in amazement, as he stalked out of the room. What had come over the man, he wondered, as he refilled his glass? He listened to the sound of the horse’s hooves on the cobbles outside and the slight echo of their departure as they faded into the distance. What had started as a joyful evening had turned into a disaster and he was now minus the only true friend he had in the world. It was so unfair, his eyes hardened with anger, as his thoughts drifted back to Sarah. It was all her fault for acting the fine lady, when in fact; she was the lowest of the low. His mind cleared a little as the full impact of John’s words hit home. What would happen if his father found out? He had to do something to stop her talking, otherwise she would spoil everything. He pushed the decanter of port away and put his head in his hands. Sarah was proud and not likely to listen to reason, but something must be done and before morning.
Moonlight streamed through the small window in her bedroom and woke Sarah from a deep sleep. For a moment she lay there still caught in the effect of the potion she had taken. The skin on her face felt tight and sore from her salty tears and in an instant the memory of what happened returned. Moving was agony, but she forced herself to sit up and light the candle on the table beside the bed. An old chest in the corner of the room held all of her mother’s old clothes and Sarah limped her way over to it. She found an old corset hidden deep within the folds of material and started to strap this round her waist. Each tightening of the lace made her cry out in pain, but she knew from her teachings that his was the only way to heal her broken ribs. She was weak when she finished and sat down on the bed until the shaking inside her stopped. There was one more thing she had to do before taking any more of the painkilling potion.
The night seemed filled with sound when she opened the cottage door. The wind rose and wafted her skirts around her as she walked to the shed where her father stored his tools. The spade felt huge as she carried it to the back of the cottage and began to dig. Sweat soaked her forehead as she eased the dry sods from the earth and twice her hands slipped down the wooden handle almost causing her to fall over. When she was sure the hole was deep enough, she went back inside the cottage and picked up the basket. An old shawl would become the burial shroud and she lined the dark hole in the earth with this before laying the cat inside. Folding the soft wool over the rigid body, she whispered a prayer for the animal she loved and then hurried the earth over it. She was sobbing as she picked up the potion and took two long draughts of the liquid. The dose was strong, much stronger than she would normally recommend, but she wanted to sleep, to escape the pain of the day. I’ll be stronger come morning, Sarah thought, as she lay back down on the bed. My mind will be clearer by then and I can decide what to do next. Her eyelids felt heavy as the potion coursed through her system and it held her fast within its grip. Her sleep was so deep she didn’t hear the sound of the hammer and the pounding of wood that signalled her death sentence.
Fabian loaded the small cart with planks of wood and led the horse out by the back gate of the Hall. He had decided what must be done and there was no going back now. The light from the full moon lit the way as he crossed the field leading to the wood and became lost among the shadow of the trees. The small oil lamp he carried sent shadows darting in his path and his eyes scanned the sinister shapes. An owl hooted overhead and its sound made the hairs on his head stand. The horse whinnied sensing his fright and he stroked its mane and made comforting sounds. He saw Sarah’s cottage in the distance and this strengthened his resolve. In the bushes and hedgerows the night creatures stopped their nocturnal foraging and watched as he passed. There was something bad about to happen; they smelled it on the night air and drew back into the shadows.
Fabian peeped through the two small windows of the cottage and saw Sarah asleep on the bed. He took the bundle of planks from the cart and carried them over to the door. He placed the first plank across the door and hammered it into place. It sounded like thunder in the silence, but there wasn’t anyone to hear and if the noise brought Sarah running, then the hammer would be put to better use. He wiped his sleeve across his forehead to clear away the sweat that dripped into his eyes and put the next plank in place. It didn’t take long until the door was completely covered and Sarah’s means of escape blocked. Fabian stood back and held up the lamp to admire his handy work. There was no way she could escape now and the windows were too small to fit through. Without a moment’s hesitation, he threw the oil lamp up onto the roof and watched as the thatch took light.
Sarah struggled to break free of the potion’s hold. There were noises in the distance and a warning voice that cut through the soundness of her sleep and warned her to run. She slipped out of the bed and coughed. The mistiness of her dream was all around her and with growing terror she realised it was smoke. Choking, she ran into the kitchen and made her way to the cottage door. Sparks from the burning thatch swam before her eyes as she threw open the door and came face to face with a wall of wood.
“No,” she screamed, beating her hands against the barrier.
She was trapped within the burning building and there was no way out. Tears flowed and blocked her vision as she ran over to the fireplace. She looked up the chimney and saw the stars overhead and the leaping flames. It was wide enough for her to climb up, so placing her back against the wall she started to hoist her way up. Soot coated her hands and made the climbing difficult and she slipped a few times, but she would not be beaten. Sobbing in terror, her fingers finally found the bricks of the chimney pot and she hoisted her way out. Below her was a sea of flame and she was stranded among it with nowhere to go.
Fabian stood in the shadow of the trees and watched as the cottage burned. The wind became his ally as it fanned the flames and turned the building into an inferno. He felt no remorse at what he’d done and felt the end justified the means. He was about to lead the horse away when a movement on the roof caught his eye and he watched in dismay as Sarah climbed out from the chimney. He stood open-mouthed as she looked frantically around her and saw him standing there.
“You did this,” she screamed above the roaring of the flames. “I curse you and all your kind. Your family will die out with you and you will never know a moment’s peace from this night forward.”
He saw her look of horror as the thatch began to give way and the chimney started to crumble. For a moment she was suspended in time, a dark, ethereal shape her hair bellowing in the wind and then she was gone. He tried to block his ears to her screams as the flames dragged her down into the burning building, but the sound of her agony would remain with him until the end of time.
“You mean to say that she’s buried in the cottage ruins?” I asked Bill.
“She is, that’s why its called Witch’s Hallow,” he explained. “She was an innocent, young woman whose death was explained away as the burning of a witch.”
“Surely no one believed that?” I said.
“They were ignorant times and the gentry had a firm hold on the working classes, but while there were many who pointed a finger at her, there were others who considered her a saint. Her most ardent supporter was John, the squire’s son, who kept him mouth shut about what he knew, but who lost no time in berating the superstitious talk surrounding her death.”
“Did her curse work?” I asked.
“Well Fabian’s line died out, but that was down to the fact that the wedding to the merchant’s daughter was called off. There was never any proof that he killed Sarah, but there’s always someone who sees something and there was talk.”
“What’s her death got to do with a ghost story?” I asked.
“Ah, well you see,” Bill said. “Her ghost has been seen numerous times over the years, and there isn’t one family in the district who doesn’t have someone who will swear to have seen her.”
“Have you?” I asked.
“It’s difficult to say. My old eyes play tricks at times, but I sometimes think I see the fleeting image of a wraith-like creature and a small black shadow walking through the autumn mist. There will be some clever fellow who’ll tell you its nothing more than a trick of the light, but I believe otherwise.”
Although centuries have passed since Sarah last walked the earth the world is still unkind to those who appear different. I sometimes wonder what they think of me, a storyteller lost among the dreams of the dying and the whispers of the dead.
Though I have heard thousands of ghost stories over the years, very few have involved witches and I was intrigued when Bill told me his next tale was about the murder of a witch. Sarah was not in fact a witch, but it suited her accuser to condemn her as such. I met Bill early on Wednesday afternoon and although it was only a little after 3, the light was already beginning to fade. The landscape is dull and tired now, the fields in hibernation, awaiting the spring. The only colour among the greys and browns was from the holly bushes, which are laden down under the weight of scarlet berries. This is a sure sign that the winter is going to be a hard one, Bill said and he is usually right.
“There won’t be a single berry left once the frost sets in,” he said. “The birds will pick the bushes clean. I’ll cut some for you when the time is right.”
I smiled at this small, thoughtful act, but my heart ached. For the first time, Bill has chosen to link his arm through mine as we walk, and I am aware of how fragile he has become over the past few months. As though sensing my thoughts, he said.
“We won’t feel Christmas; what are you buying me?”
“What would you like?” I asked.
“I was thinking of getting myself a young one,” I sensed his smile. “What do you think?”
“I think you’d be dead in a week.”
His laughter echoed in the stillness and caused a few crows to take flight. The sound of their confusion shattered the silence as they wheeled and dipped among the skeleton trees. As we skirted the edge of the bog, I saw the dark outline of the Wailing Wood in the distance and the cry of the curlew added to the overall sense of bleakness. We were on our way to Witch’s Hallow. Though I spent most of my childhood holidays in this place, it amazed me how ignorant I am about the stories and the places associated with them. Bill had told me a little about the place we were about to visit, but as usual he would keep the best part of the story for later, when we were back inside his little cottage and safely out of harm’s way. We walked along narrow laneways, the centres churned into waves of earth by the passing of many tractors and across fields until we reached our destination. In reality the hallow is more of a dip in the land. In a sense it would remind one of the bed of a dried up stream with towering banks on either side and overshadowed by trees. It must look lovely in the summertime, when everything is in bloom, but harsh November has stripped it of its beauty and it is now as barren as the rest of the land.
“It’s just up ahead,” Bill breath came in gasps.
I stopped walking and turned to look at him.
“I’ll rest when we get there,” his grip on my arm spurred me on.
It was impossible to see anything other than the high rise of banks and even though I had no idea what I would see when we finally got there, I did expect something.
“This is it,” Bill let go of my arm and perched on a large rock.
“What?” I looked around me in confusion.
“Sarah’s cottage,” he waved towards a small mound in the earth. “This is where it all happened over two hundred years ago.”
“There’s nothing here,” I walked around the edge of the mound.
Bill shook his head and sighed. 
“It’s there if you would only look,” he got up and pulled aside some of the brambles. “Look there, you can just make out the shape of her cottage.”
There were some old bricks jutting out from the earth, but otherwise nothing to mark that there had ever been a dwelling there.
“She was only nineteen when she was murdered,” Bill let the brambles settle back in place. “They say her screams could be heard for miles.”
I felt the familiar sense of dread, because I knew what was coming next, as I asked.
“Is it her ghost that’s supposed to haunt this place?”
“Aye, young Sarah’s and her cat.”
“A ghost cat? I’ve never heard of such a thing,” I said. “I’ve heard hundreds of stories about black dogs, but never a cat.”
“There are a lot of things you’ve never heard about,” Bill gestured at me to come away. “We’ll go home out of the cold and I’ll tell you about Sarah. We’ll let her rest for now,” he made the sign of the cross on his forehead and I copied his actions.
“She’s not buried here, is she?” I asked Bill.
“She is indeed,” he took hold of my arm. “She’s under that mound along with her little cat.”
I look over my shoulder a few times as we left the hallow, more aware than usual of the lonesome stillness that covers the countryside at that time of day. Shadows leapt from their hiding places and cast dark shapes in our path. Soft scurrying in the undergrowth became the footsteps of some demonic creatures that might leap out on us at any time.
“It’s probably a fox,” Bill sensed my fright. “We’ve nothing to fear from Sarah, she was innocent and not one to cause harm.”
I tried to concentrate on Bill’s breathing as we walked along in the descending darkness and must admit how relieved I was when the light from his cottage came into view.
Sarah gathered her skirts around her, as she climbed up the bank in search of herbs. The summer was at an end and she needed to gather as much as possible before first frost. The cold stripped the plants of their healing properties, but once dried above the fire in her cottage, they would retain their goodness. The last summer had been hot and dry. The heat brought the flies that fed on the food and spread disease in their wake. Sarah lost both her parents two years before and knew well the cost of careless handling of food. Her neighbours thought her outlook strange and there were many who whispered behind her back about her strange practises, but they lost no time in coming to ask for help, when the fever hit. Unlike many of his time, Sarah’s father owned the cottage they lived in and this passed to her on his death. The little vegetable garden beside the cottage provided most of the food she needed and Molly, the goat, supplied her with milk and cheese. The few pennies she earned from her medicines went towards buying cloth to make her dresses. It was a lonely life for a young woman and was it not for the company of Sooty, her cat; Sarah would have felt quite alone in the world. Sooty knew her every mood and shared in all Sarah’s highs and lows. She was her mistress’s constant companion and accompanied her on her foraging in the woods and streams.
“Scat,” Sarah fanned her skirts at the cat, which was rolling around on a bed of valerian. “I don’t want to have to pick that free of your hair.”
Sarah knelt and began to pull the herb free from the earth. The valerian was used to calm those in need and was a godsend when it came to easing some of the pain of childbirth.
“Come on Sooty,” Sarah said, scooping up her basket. “We need some vervain.”
This plant helped eased the symptoms of fever and there was only one place it grew, near Oakwood Hall. Sarah picked her way carefully through the wood, stopping now and then to pick some of the wild mushrooms that grew in abundance in the shade of the trees. It was almost two years to the day since she’d lost her parents, but she tried not to think about it and concentrated instead on her gathering. The sharp turrets of the Hall came into view above the tree line, so she stopped behind one of the trees and scanned the area. If her need for the herb was not so great she wouldn’t have dared come to this place, but the loneliness she felt could not be wished on others and there was no doubt that many would suffer her fate, if she did not get the vervain.
“Come on,” she whispered to the cat.
The young woman and the black cat became streaks of light as they ran across the field bordering the Hall. The vervain grew outside the high walls of the Hall’s herb garden and the gardener allowed Sarah to pick as much of the plant as she needed. The pinky-blue flower of the vervain stood out among the other darker plants surrounding it and Sarah made directly for this. Snapping off as many stems as her small hands allowed, she looked around in search of movement, sure that at any moment he would appear; the person she feared most in the world.
Copyright © 2011 Gemma Mawdsley
I sat down this morning to begin writing the story of Witch’s Hallow and was struck by the number of similarities Bill’s tale has to my book Death Cry. Those of you who are cynical will think I possibly heard the story as a child and that may be. Even as I walked across the land with Bill, I was aware of the distant echoes of my ancestors feet and was reminded once again of my ties to this land and those who have trod the earth before me. I find as I grow older that these same ties pull me back and I find peace in the silence of my ancestral home. I will post the next story on Friday until then have a great week.
Sorry to everyone who took the time to write and ask when I am posting another blog. It’s been a hectic few weeks, but I promise to post another one on the 18th. Please bear with me until then and I promise you won’t be disappointed with the next one Witches Hallow.
Ghost Story (The Wailing Wood,Part Two.)
Milly stood at the small window of her cottage and watched the children at play. She smiled at their antics as they chased one another round the yard. Francis, her eldest at just eight was pretending to be a monster and his lumbering gait had his sisters Jane aged six and Maura four, screaming with excitement and terror. Milly shook her head in awe of their innocence and wishing she could remember such a time. Her husband Pat was due in soon for his dinner and there was work to be done. Selecting a few potatoes from a stack in the corner of the room, she put them on to boil. Tonight their meal would be a fine one, as Father Thomas, the priest she cleaned for, had chicken for his dinner. The old man had very little appetite and insisted she take what remained of the bird home with her. She imagined the children’s faces when they saw the feast and felt a rush of happiness. Even though they were both working, times were hard and the summer of 1845 was proving to be worse of all. Blight had hit the potatoes and over half the crop was rotting in the ground.
“It’ll pass,” Her husband said, when she told him how worried she was. 
Still, Milly wasn’t so sure, but she tried not to think about it. They had money put by with the intention of one day owning their own cottage and a small parcel of land. They would have had enough saved by now to buy the home of their dreams, if only Pat would stay away from the pub. The clatter of feet on the path outside the door heralded the arrival of her family. The children, as always hung on to their father’s every word, as he told them stories about his day up at the big house. Pat worked in the stables at the manor house, and the children lived in awe of the many tales he spun about the place, some real, but most imagined. He came up behind Milly as she strained the water off the potatoes and kissed the back of her head.
“How was your day?” He asked, as he plunged his hands into the basin of water laid out for him.
“Very good,” she motioned at the children to follow their father’s lead.
While they were busy washing their hands, she took the chicken from the cupboard and placed it in the centre of the table. Her family’s exclamations of delight were exactly as she expected.
“Well, thank god for Father Thomas and his bad appetite,” Pat said, as he pulled the bird towards him.
“Pat, stop that now,” Milly laughed.
The children watched wide-eyed as he carved the bird with expert ease, as though they were used to having a whole chicken every day.
“Will you have a leg?” Pat asked her.
“No, give one to Francis,” she smiled at her son’s delight. “He loves a leg.”
“Thanks Ma,” he whispered, as he stared down at the prize on his plate.
As they ate, her husband regaled them with tales from the big house. Milly picked at her food, lost in thought, but smiling in all the right places, when he made a joke. Her mind was troubled of late, but she was too frightened to confront him about the stories she’d heard from the gossips in the village. There was a new kitchen maid up at the manor; they said Pat was paying a bit too much attention too. She had heard many such tales over her ten year marriage and always dismissed them as idle gossip, though at times, she had known there was some substance to them. Her family meant more to her than her life, and if ignoring her husband’s odd flirtation meant keeping them together, then so be it. This latest dalliance was more worrying than any of the others and she had a bad feeling about the whole thing. There were many who said that Milly was one of the most beautiful women in the district and one of the most hardworking, but this in itself was not enough for her husband. While she never doubted his love for the children, she wasn’t so sure when it came to her.
“Ma, did you hear what Da said?” Jane roused her out of her musings.
“Sorry pet, I was miles away,” Milly said.
Jane then went on to recount the story her father had just old. Milly smiled at the way she looked adoringly at her father as she spoke. Of all the children Jane was the one who loved him the most. To her he was a hero, her father who could do anything and was afraid of nothing.
“Can we go out to the wood after dinner, Ma?” Francis asked.
“Just for an hour,” Milly said.
The children had a few wild rabbits they’d managed to capture in a makeshift cage and they spend most of their spare time tending to them.
“I love it in the wood,” Jane said, as they got up from the table. “I wish we could stay in there forever.”
Outside a cloud crossed the setting sun and the room was thrown into shadow. Milly shivered, as a cold hand clutched at her heart and she knew that there was something bad about to happen.
The winter was hard and the loss of the potato crop meant everyone was scrabbling about trying to find what food they could. Milly’s saving meant she could buy what little food they needed, and Father Thomas was as generous as ever with his leftovers. Pat now came home each night with tales about poachers being caught in the grounds of the manor and Milly listened in horror as he named neighbours who were being transported to Australia for stealing a rabbit. She had no idea at the time that those who were being sent away would one day count themselves among the lucky ones. Christmas came and went with the usual excitement for the children, but for Milly it was a time of great sadness, as she felt her husband moving further and further away from her. He still lay beside her at night, but as far away from her as their small bed would allow. As she listened to his thundering snores, she wondered how long it would be before she was lying there alone. Shelia, the kitchen maid from the manor, had a hold over her husband that seemed unbreakable. Each night, when the children were in bed, Milly waited for him to tell her he was leaving, but week after agonising week passed and he kept silent.
Milly loved Father Thomas’s house and its fine big rooms. The parochial house was huge compared to her cottage with eight rooms to house just one man. Her cottage was on the edge of the bog and always felt damp no matter what time of year it was. Her cloth flew over the shiny mahogany table in the dining room and she wondered what it would be like to sit there and eat some of the food she prepared each day for the priest. The clatter of the carriage arriving at the front gate brought her back to reality and she walked to the window and looked out. Father Thomas had just started on his usual rounds to visit the sick and dying, but he was back already. Frowning, she walked down the hall and opened the front door.
“Have you heard?” He brushed by her and went into the library.
“Heard what, Father?”
She had no idea what could have upset the old man so, and she followed him into the room. His hand shook as he poured brandy into two glasses and held one out to her. She took it and gazed down at the amber liquid in wonder.
“Sit down, woman,” the priest ordered.
Milly sank down into the chair beside the desk and watched as the priest drained his glass. As he reached for the decanter to refill, he noticed her drink was untouched.
“Take a sip,” he nodded at the glass. “You’re going to need it.”
The brandy burned her throat and it took all of Milly’s self control to stop herself from coughing.
“The crops have failed for the second year,” the old priest words hung in the air like a death knell.
“No?” Milly didn’t feel the glass slip from her hand.
It bounced onto the heavy woollen rug and rolled onto the timber floor with a clatter.
“Sorry, Father,” she stood up to clean the spilt drink.
“No, leave it,” the priest said. “You go home to your family, I’ll see to that.”
Milly couldn’t remember afterward if she thanked the man for his kindness. All she could recall was grabbing her shawl and running for home. There were many like her doing the same thing and the fields and roads were spotted with figures running as though their life depended on it. For the first time she noticed the sickly sweet smell in the air and she knew the crop they all depended on was rotting in the ground.
Pat was already at home when she got there and sitting round the table with the children. Instead of the usual laughter, there was a heavy silence and she nodded at her husband to show she’d heard the terrible news. The girls were too young to understand the severity of the loss, but Francis understood and put an arm round her shoulder when she sat down beside him.
“The family are talking about leaving for England,” Pat said.
His employers, expecting the worst, were abandoning the sinking ship.
“What about your job?” Milly asked. “They’ll still need someone to take care of the horses.”
“They’re talking of taking the animals with them,” Pat ran a hand through his dark hair. “It might not come to that, but we have to be ready when it does.”
What they imagined came to pass some months later. As the supplies of potatoes dwindled, the gentry took fright and abandoned their homes. A few of the staff remained at the manor, but there was no need for Pat and the other men, who worked the grounds. The price of food rose until it was out of reach of the common people and the amount of beggars wandering the roads in search of work increased daily. Disease spread as those dying of starvation feel victim to a worse fate, typhus. Milly kept the children inside the cottage and lived in fear of them catching the disease. Pat spent more time in the pub, coming home with tales too horrible to relate to the children.
“How much money have we left?” He asked Milly one day.
She took her meagre saving from its hiding place behind a loose brick in the wall and shook it free from the old sock she’d stored it in. The coins rolled across the scarred wood of the table. Pat grabbed them and counted each one, before placing them in a pile. When he was finished he sat back, shook his head and sighed.
“There’s not enough.”
“Not enough for what?” Milly asked.
“Our fare to America,” he said. “There’s only enough for one of us to go and the children.”
“You go,” Milly’s mind was made up in an instant. “You can find work once you get there and send for me.”
“No, I want you to go and take the children,” he said. “I heard there’s work going up north. I can go there once you’re safely away, and I’ll follow you out there once I’ve saved the fare.”
Milly opened her mouth to protest, but he held up a hand to stop her.
“It’s no use arguing, my mind is made up,” he said. “I’ll be able to work all the quicker without having to worry about all of you.”
Milly’s eyes filled with tears and she hated herself for ever doubting that he loved her.
“When will we go?” She asked.
“First thing tomorrow,” he said. “There’s a ship sailing in two days time and it’ll take us at least a day to walk to the port. Pack everything you need up tonight. I’ll tell the children myself, if you don’t mind?”
Milly called the children in from the bedroom, where they had been playing. She left them alone with their father while he broke the news. Their excited squeals meant they took it well, and she knew her husband’s skill as a storyteller, was making it sound very exciting. There was little to pack and in the end all she had to take with them to the New World was two small bundles of clothes.
The worry of his family’s departure didn’t affect Pat’s sleep, but Milly lay beside him wishing the dawn would never come. How long would it be before she saw her husband again, she wondered and would the forced separation mean the end of her marriage? How would they survive in another country without a man to protect them? Her head swam with a thousand other thoughts as the hours ticked slowly by.
She used the last of the food to make the breakfast the next morning. They would need it to give them strength for the journey ahead. It was agreed that Pat would take the children into the wood to let the rabbits go free, while Milly went to say her goodbyes to Father Thomas. It was cold that morning, but the sun was bright and the sky was clear of any rain clouds. Milly parted with her family by the wood and stopped just once to wave to them before they disappeared among the trees. Father Thomas was sad to see her go, but he assured her she was doing the right thing. She told him about Pat staying behind until he saved the fare, and her worries about surviving once they reached America. The old priest listened to her fears and blessed her, asking god to give her strength. As he walked her to the front door, he pressed some money into her hand.
“I won’t see you go alone,” he smiled.
Milly looked down at the coins and her heart leapt. Too overcome to speak, she looked up at the priest with eyes filled with tears.
“You take that man of yours along with you,” the priest’s eyes mirrored hers. “I’ve little need for the money, and I wouldn’t like to think of you starting out alone in a strange country.”
Milly ran all the way back home. She wanted to shout, to scream her happiness to the world. There was no one there when she reached the cottage and she started out for the wood. They had probably lost track of time, she thought, and Pat was as bad as the children for playing with the rabbits. As she came closer to the wood, she saw the figure of her husband stagger out from the trees.
“Francis is hurt,” he called.
Milly ran past him and into the small group of trees. She hadn’t time to notice the sheen of sweat on her husband’s face or the hard look in his eyes. The children were all sitting together beneath one of the trees, and she thought for a moment they were playing a trick on her, until she saw the dark stains on the front of their clothes. The sting of her husband’s knife on her throat felt cold and she pulled away from its touch. She tried to speak, to ask him why, but the blood gushing from the wound made her gasp, as she stumbled deeper into the wood. Weak from loss of blood, she fell and was aware of her husband’s dark shadow overhead. He stood watching as she bled out and there was no emotion in his face. Before her eyes were dimmed forever, Milly saw him wipe the bloody blade of his knife on a leaf.
Before he left to join his mistress at the port, Pat gathered the bundles of clothes Milly packed and took them back to the wood. He threw them in among the trees and left them to rot with the bodies of his family.
“So that’s the story,” Bill said, as he threw another sod of turf on the fire.
“Then why is it called the Wailing Wood?” I asked.
“Because she’s still seen from time to time, Milly that is,” he said. “Wandering around the wood and wailing for the loss of her children.”
“How were they found?”
“That’s the interesting bit,” Bill said. “It seems that Pat caught the typhus while on board ship and begged the captain to record his dying confession. Months later the letter reached Father Thomas and he went in search of Milly and her children. He found their skeletons huddled so close together that it was difficult to tell where one body started and the other one ended. He recorded in the parish records the condition of the bodies, the matted hair and the bundles of rotten clothes. The graveyards were filled to capacity by this time and he thought it wiser to bury them where they lay. So with the help of some able-bodied men, they dug the grave and placed the unfortunates inside. One thing that always struck me as sad,” Bill paused. “Is that when they moved the larger skeleton, they found the coins that the priest had given Milly to pay her husband’s fare.”
“Why did he have to kill them?” I asked. “He could have just run away and left them live.”
“Who knows what went on in his mind,” Bill said. “From what I gathered Pat was a selfish man who put his own needs above those of others, but there must have been a madness there that he’d kept hidden.”
“When did the haunting start?”
“A long time ago,” Bill said. “Even as children we lived in fear of the wood and there are countless stories associated with it, but do you know the strangest thing of all?”
I shook my head.
“Remember I said Milly had staggered away after the dreadful blow fell?” Not waiting for an answer, Bill continued. “She was a good way through the wood when she died. Pat even drew a map to show the old priest how to find her, but she was with her children when they came to bury them. How do you suppose that happened?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “And I’ve heard enough for tonight, so I’m going home.”
“It’ll soon be Halloween,” Bill said. “I bet you’re looking forward to it.”Bill walked me to the car. The moon was full and made the yard seem bright as day.
I didn’t answer as I got into the car and let the window down.
“I’ll see you next week,” I said.
“I might see you before then,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “I’ll look out for you at Halloween. Be sure and wave as you ride your broomstick across the moon.”
His laughter followed me all the way out of the yard and up the lane to the road. He really does think he’s the funniest man alive.
I tried not to think about Milly and her children as I drove down the dark roads, but it was impossible. I couldn’t help, but hope that the children’s deaths were quick and that Jane, who adored her father, didn’t see the look on his face as he drew the knife across her throat. As I passed the bog I saw the outline of the wood in the distance. It was nothing more than a shadow darker than the night. It’s sad to think of the young woman who was so terribly betrayed by the man she loved. It’s sadder still to think she still haunts the place, mourning her loss until the end of time. When I first saw the wood it seemed impenetrable, as though the trees and bushes had gathered together to protect the grave. Even the fallen branches lie as a barrier, perhaps to warn those who would dare attempt to disturb this lonely place, that she has suffered enough and must be left in peace. I know I will forever see the wood in a different light and should I ever hear a cry echoing across the bog on a winter’s night, I’ll put it down to the cry of a vixen, as I couldn’t bear to think of it otherwise, could you?
Have a very happy Halloween.
Copyright © 2011 Gemma Mawdsley
Ghost Story (The Wailing Wood)
There were still a couple of hours of daylight left when we set off for the wood. I was wrapped up against the chill in a heavy coat and gloves, but Bill wore only his threadbare jacket. I’ve bought him gloves and hats in the past, but he refuses to wear them. He says he’s used to the cold, though the state of his skin belies this, as his cheeks are red and threaded with veins and his hands dry and sore-looking.
“I can’t understand how it’s gotten so cold,” I shivered, as we stepped out from the warmth of his cottage.
“It’ll snow before long,” Bill looked up at the sky. “Mark my words; we’ll have snowfall before the month is out.”
“So early in the year?” I asked.
“The seasons are changing,” he said. “The earth is rebelling against the misuse and don’t bother telling me that you recycle, it’ll take a lot more than that to heal the damage that’s been done.”
I hate it when Bill speaks like this, because I know he’s right and it frightens me more than any ghost.
“We’ll go by the bog,” he changed the subject. “It’s quicker that way.”
Bill had mentioned the Wailing Wood in passing and I’ve heard stories about it since I was a child. I’ve seen it in the distance, but never thought anything about it, until now. It’s a strange group of trees, more copse than wood and stranger still; it grows on the edge of the bog. Since I’ve started to record Bill’s stories, I’ve grown wiser and now wear a pants and flat shoes when I go out with him. The land we trek across is uneven and dangerous to those it catches unawares. We crossed a few fields, the earth bare, and the land shorn of its crops, in hibernation until the spring. The sun sank a little as we walked and its dying rays were blinding. The leafless branches of the trees offered no protection from its light, but the beauty of their skeleton forms would gladden the eye of any artist. As we moved closer to the bog, the land turned harsher and its neglect was obvious, as no crop would grow in the marshy earth and the farmer wasted no time in its upkeep. We climbed over barred gates, the bolts rusted into place. Bill pulled back the thorny bushes and it was hard to imagine these barren, brown branches would hang with heavy fruits once the winter had passed.
The bog spread out before us, and we stood panting from our last climb in order to get our breath back and admire the beauty. Purple moor grass vies with gold and brown heathers in a vast array of autumn colours. Other plants grow on the hummocks, the higher, drier parts of the bog, and Bill named each one as we passed.
“Stay beside me and don’t go wandering off,” he still thinks of me as a child who needs warning.
I know the bog well, but not in the way Bill does, and despite its beauty, it can be treacherous. In the numerous hallows, deep pools have formed, some of them bottomless, according to my guide, and the white bog cotton surrounding them masks their danger. Other than the small hummocks, the land is flat and there are no trees to welcome the nesting of birds. To the untrained eye, it seems a dead place, but it is, in fact, teeming with life and Bill calls out the names of every bird we come across. Imagine the thrill of a city dweller like me, to see the Red Grouse foraging among the heather, its gold and crimson coat making the other plants look faded. The bobbing Snipe hops from place to place and takes no notice of the human invasion. It looked up at us and decided we were no threat, before going about its daily business. In the distance the call of the curlew echoes over the bog, its notes haunting in the silent air. Bill says he’s seen Kestrels hunting here and I would love to see one swooping over the ground in search of prey, but my luck was out.
“Look,” Bill whispered.
A red streak ran across the mosses, the fox’s body so lithe, that his movements seemed fluid. I was so taken by all this wonder around me, I had lost track of our reason for being there, and it wasn’t until Bill nodded at the dark shape ahead, that I was jolted back to reality.
The Wailing Wood stood like a dark shadow against the sky and not even the setting sun could pierce its denseness. It is a small growth of trees that overlook bushes and wild undergrowth. Though many of the branches are bare, some leaves still remain and hang like sleeping, black bats. While the trees in the more fertile fields have been stripped bare by the wind, they nevertheless stand proud against the sky. Here, in this veritable, almost petrified forest, they droop limp and drained of life. I started to move closer, but Bill’s hand on my arm stopped me.
“Don’t try to go inside,” he said. “There are thorns big enough to tear through your skin.”
“What is it?” I wasn’t aware that I was whispering.
It’s difficult to explain the wood. It had a hallowed ground feeling, like walking into a church, or a place of the dead.
“I wanted you to see it for yourself,” Bill said. “Before I tell you the story behind it.”
“Can’t you tell me now?” My eyes scanned the undergrowth, looking for signs of life.
“It’s not a story that wants telling in the cold and dark,” Bill said. “I’ll tell you all about it when we get back to the cottage. I wanted you have a look at it first. The bones of a young mother and her children are buried in there,” Bill pointed a quivering finger into the darkness. “I want you to search them out and feel their despair, go on,” he nudged me with his shoulder, as though pushing me into the arms of those waiting trees.
The wood is dark and I saw in my minds eye the centre, the place housing the mass grave. The branches of the overhead trees have tangled together to form an arch, so the grave is always in shadow. Despite its solitude, no birds sing and the usual black shapes of crows’ nests are missing from the branches, but it’s the sadness of the place that makes me catch my breath. For the first time, I am aware of the sun sinking below the horizon and I am totally alone and lost within the tangle of trees and bushes. Everything is lost, I have no one left, all those I love are dead and I’m trapped in a maze of thorns. No, my mind screams for release from these terrible memories and it is the feel of Bill’s arm around my shoulders that pull me back and turn me towards home.
I don’t speak, because I can’t. My throat hurts from the tears I’m trying to hold back.
“I’m sorry, girl,” Bill’s breath is warm on my chilled cheek. “I forget sometimes how strong the power is in you.”
“That’s OK,” I managed to whisper. “I just got a bit carried away.”
I knew by his next sentence that Bill was trying to change the mood and it worked. He’s said the same thing to me a thousand times.
“You know, in the olden days you’d have been burned as a witch.”
“And I know who’d be wielding the first flaming torch,” I said.
“Best thing really,” I sensed his smile. “Put you out of your misery.”
“You’re just pure evil, aren’t you?” I looked at him out of the corner of my eye and saw his face crease up with laughter.
We better get you inside,” he said. “You’re pale as death. A drop of brandy will bring the colour back, and you’ll need it when you hear the story attached to the wood.”
“I can’t drink, I’m driving,” I reminded him.
“Phone home,” he suggested. “Tell them you’re staying the night here. Get yourself a bit of a reputation.”
We were still laughing, when we reached the cottage and saw the welcoming light of the fire inside.
That’s it for this week, dear reader. I can tell you that our laughter soon ceased, as Bill retold his tale. I now understand the sadness of the wood and next week, you will too. Oh, by the way, my reputation remains intact.
Copyright © 2011 Gemma Mawdsley
Hi Everyone
Sorry that I haven’t posted in a while, but I’ve been really busy writing up the investigations for Soul Searchers, the Irish Paranormal Group. I have a new ghost story that I will post on Friday next and I know you’ll think it was worth the wait.
Tainted Ground Part 2
Life was good for Sean and his family back in 1988. His skill as an architect was being recognised, and he had commissions to last him for the next three years. If he had any business worries at the time, he can no longer recall them, but his private life took a battering four years before, when his wife Lorna, suffered postnatal depression after the birth of their second daughter, Alison. Her recovery was slower than her doctors expected, and it was only now, after Alison’s fourth birthday, that she started to rally. They agreed that a change would be of benefit, and as they both dreamed of moving to the country, this seemed as good a time as ever. They viewed many houses before deciding on the newly built dormer, which was to become the stuff of nightmares.
“I remember the first time we viewed the house,” Sean said. “Lorna shivered, and remarked on how cold it was, but I put that down to the months it had stood vacant or her nerves. I feel guilty when I think back to how many times I blamed her nerves over the next few months, and how angry I became at her at times.”
They moved in two months later, and the first few weeks were taken up with decorating and landscaping. The only thing odd about the place was the actions of Lady, their Golden Labrador. She refused to go into the house, and they were forced to buy her a kennel. As this is a farming community, she could not be allowed to roam around, so they had to chain her up all the time. Sean put it down to the new surroundings, and told the children that she would come round in time.
“I’m not sure if we were too exhausted at night to notice what was going on,” Sean said. “I only know that those first few weeks were among the happiest we had known in years.”
Once the general upheaval of the house move was over, and the children settled into their new school, Lorna was left with more time on her hands than was good for her. Unlike the town, she could not just pop to the shops or jump on a bus. In the country she became a prisoner, and once Sean’s car disappeared each morning and she waved the girls off on the school bus, the day stretched out before her. The cleaning took a little of her time and daytime TV bored her. Sean wanted to purchase a second car, but she was against the idea. Since her illness, she no longer felt she could cope with driving, even if the roads round there were deserted most of the time. Sean finds it hard to recall exactly how it first started. He remembers Lorna complaining of scratching in the walls and doors opening and closing by themselves, but he put the scratching down to the field mice that could be seen scampering through the grass outside, and the doors nothing more than the wind. Then small objects started to disappear, and there were constant battles between his wife and daughters over this. They began to suspect Shelly, their eldest child, who at the age of eight, had protested against leaving the town and all her friends. At first, the noises in the night and the sound of doors slamming were blamed on her, and they saw it her way of payback.
“Then one night, there was this terrible crash from the kitchen,” Sean said. “It sounded like an explosion. I got up, angry at having been disturbed, and ready to give Shelly a piece of my mind. I looked in to her bedroom to find her pretending to sleep, but when I shook her, it was obvious that she had been sleeping. Of course, my first thought after that was burglars, so I went back into my room and took a golf club from the closet. Lorna was awake by then, and despite my warning for her to stay in bed; she followed me down to the kitchen. I’ll never forget the scene when I switched on the light,” he paused and took another gulp of the whiskey. “Every cupboard and drawer was open, and the contents scattered on the floor. The fridge door hung on one hinge, and it had suffered the same fate as the cupboards, but that wasn’t the worst,” he gave a nervous laugh. “I know its sounds comical now, but if you’d been there to witness it, it was terrifying. The cutlery drawer in the Welsh dresser was open, and we watched as an assortment of knives, forks and spoons, started to walk up and down the length of the wood. You know the way a child might stand them on the handle and pretend to make them walk? Well, that’s what the cutlery was doing, and it continued for about a minute before collapsing in a heap. Lorna was hysterical by this time, and her sobbing roused me out of my trance. The pills she had managed without for months came back into use, but it took me some time to console her. I still thought there was a rational explanation, if not rational, something like a poltergeist. I’d read about such things being associated with children, and poor Shelly was once again believed to be the culprit. Lorna refused to stay in the house the next day, so I dropped her at a friend’s on my way to work. The only thing I could think of doing was calling our new parish priest, and he agreed to come and bless the house. Whatever it was that haunted us, took offence and we didn’t have a minute’s peace after that.”
Other than pictures falling off the walls, and the children complaining that theirs beds were shaking at night, there was nothing more disturbing, until the next sickening act.
“We were invited to a wedding,” Sean said. “It was one of my clients, and we had no choice, but to go. Lorna wasn’t up to it, so I explained this to the clients, and agreed that we would go for the meal and come home after that. Since we would be gone for hours, and it was a miserable, wet day, I dragged Lady inside and locked her in the utility room. I thought I was doing the right thing. A least she’d be dry, and there was enough food and water to keep her going until we got back. I can still hear her howls echoing down the hallway, as I closed the front door. We arrived back about six hours later. We had left the hall light on, but to our dismay, every light in the house was on. I had that feeling; you know the one you get in the pit of your stomach?” He asked.
Bill and I nodded; we both knew the feeling well.
“I knew something was wrong the minute I opened the front door,” Sean continued. “I made Lorna and the girls stay in the car, while I checked the rooms, and I’m thankful to God that I did. The smell hit me as I walked towards the kitchen. It’s hard to describe, but it was a combination of that raw, butcher shop smell mixed with something more foul. I called out to Lady as I approached the utility room, and I’m not ashamed to say that my hand shook as I pressed down on the handle. My stomach turned at the overwhelming stench rushed out at me, and grabbing a towel I put it over my nose before going inside. Lady lay in a heap behind the door, and I had to push her lifeless body back so I could get inside. The wood on the back of the door was splintered from where she had used her nails trying to escape, and the fur on her paws was caked black from the blood. It was her eyes I will never forget, they were open wide, and I wouldn’t have believed an animal could show such fear. I called the local vet, because I wanted the children to think Lady was sick. The shock of her death would affect them badly, and I was too weary to deal with it at that time. I also wanted to know what happened to her. He was at a loss to know what she’d died from, but he bundled her body up and took it away to examine it further. The girls were upset, but I said the vet was taking care of her, and they could see her next day. I know it was wrong of me, but I needed time to get my story straight. I even lied to my wife, so she wouldn’t be worried, and the episode with the lights was forgotten as everyone was more concerned about the dog. It was hard to tell my family the next morning that the vet rang to say Lady was dead. What I didn’t tell Lorna was that the vet found nothing to explain her death, and said with a nervous laugh, that you would swear from the look in the dog’s eyes that she had died of fright. Things got much worse after that.”
Sean went on to describe the endless nights, as Lorna lay asleep beside him. Her doctor had prescribed more pills for her anxiety, and still more to help her sleep. Sean didn’t have the luxury of oblivion, so he lay there listening to the footsteps overhead. Remember the house was a dormer and built so there was no attic, so unless the footsteps were on the roof, he couldn’t imagine where they were coming from. There were too many incidents to record here, but as the days passed, the disturbances increased. Then it started to affect the children. One night, exhaustion took over and he managed to drop off, only to be woken by the sounds of Shelly’s screams. Springing from the bed, he rushed out into the hall, to find the little girl running towards him.
“It’s after me, Daddy,” she ran into his arms.
“Who’s after you?” Sean brushed her sweat-soaked hair from off her face.
“The monster,” she sobbed, and buried her head against his shoulder.
“There’s no monster,” he patted her back. “You just had a bad dream.”
“”There is, look,” Shelly turned, and pointed down the hall.
Sean said he’d heard the expression about the hair standing up on your head, but he’s never experienced it until that night. Something was crouched at the end of the hall; a massive, black shadow that seemed to pulsate with hatred. As he watched, it blended back into the wall. He put Shelly in the bed beside her mother and went to get Alison. Once the child was safely in the bed with his wife, he decided to dress. His pyjama top was stuck to him, so he went to the ensuite and turned on the taps in the sink. He didn’t dare use the shower, as he was afraid to leave his family alone even for a few minutes. He didn’t even close the door, but started to splash water onto his face. He would dress and wait for the morning to come, he decided, though he had no idea what he would do after that. There was no point in calling the priest back in, and this was in the days before psychic investigators. To say he was at his wits end was not an exaggeration. Once dressed, he lay down on the bed beside his sleeping family and watched the curtains, praying for the first light of dawn to creep through them. Despite his terror, he fell asleep and woke to a searing pain.
“I felt a sting on my forehead,” he said. “Like a bad paper cut, and this woke me. I brought my hand up to feel the skin and found I was bleeding. I became aware of the same sensation on my stomach, and to my horror; my shirt was stained with blood. When it opened the buttons, there were deep scratches running across my skin, but the material on my shirt was untouched. I was shaking as I went back into the bathroom, and I had to bite my lip to stop myself from crying out, as I started to wipe the blood away. The more I wiped, the faster the blood flowed and I saw that the cuts were deep, deep enough to require stitching. I tied a towel around my waist and rubbed the blood from my forehead. The cut here wasn’t too bad, and as I rubbed at the skin, I felt the familiar feeling of dread that I’d felt in the hallway return. The mirror on the medicine cabinet above the sink seemed to mist over, and I couldn’t move as I watched it swirl and take shape. There were things, I couldn’t call them people, more like rotten, zombie-like horrors, and they were coming out of the wall behind me, Jesus,” he stopped, almost panting, as he relived that night. “They reached out to me; I felt their nails on my back and remember nothing after that, until I felt another sting on my arm. The paramedics were placing a line under the skin at the back of my hand. They thought I fell and hit the sink, but there was no sign of a head injury, other than the scratch on my forehead. Lorna and the girls came with me in the ambulance. I was feverish for three days after, and it was only when I recovered consciousness, that I realised how badly I was hurt. My back was torn into ribbons and the criss-cross of black stitches ran like railway lines across the skin. Lorna and the children stayed with friends, but the experience had touched all three in a terrible way, Shelly most of all. Lorna told me the child had witnessed the attack and was a nervous wreck.
“She keeps saying that you took their names,” Lorna said. “Shelly says that over and over again. Daddy took the monsters names.”
There was silence for a moment, and Bill used this opportunity to heap more turf onto the fire.
“We never went back there,” Sean said. “Afterwards, when I was fully recovered, physically I mean, I don’t think I’ll ever recover from it mentally, I started to ask questions about the house. The builder laughed at me and dismissed me as a nutcase. Then someone said I should talk to Bill here, and he told me the truth about the foundations.”
“I knew from the minute they dumped the headstones that it would be a place of deep unrest,” Bill said.
“Couldn’t you have sued the builder?” I asked.
“I thought about it,” Sean said. “But where was my proof? He closed one company after another, and there were no assets in his name. My solicitor checked all that out for me, and it would have taken years and money I couldn’t afford, to fight him in the courts, and I’d probably be laughed at in the end.”
“What happened with your family?” I asked.
“Lorna never recovered. Her nerves were already bad and that house was the final straw,” Sean said. “She’s been in hospital for over two months this time, and there’s no hope of a full recovery. Alison was very young, and she seems to have forgotten all about it, but poor Shelly…,” his voice trailed off.
“Shelly died two years ago,” Bill finished the sentence for him.
“She didn’t die two years ago,” Sean’s eyes blazed with anger, and when he turned to look at me, I saw the tears gathering. “She committed suicide” he said. “She took an overdose of pills.”
“I’m so sorry,” I reached out and touched his hand.
“I know, thank you,” he held on to my fingers as though they were a lifeline. “It was the house that killed her. She never recovered from the fright, and the things she saw there. You can’t imagine what her death did to her mother, to all of us.”
Bill refilled Sean’s glass, after persuading him to stay the night. Sean stood up as I was saying my goodbyes. He staggered a little, and it was obvious that the whiskey was taking effect.
“If anyone ever tells you that a ghost can’t hurt you,” he said, as he pulled his shirt free from his trousers. “Tell them about this,”
He pulled the shirt up under his chin and I saw the raised, white lines of the scars on his stomach. He turned so I could see his back, and I promise you, it was every bit as bad as he said it was.
Bill walked me to my car.
“That poor man,” I said.
“Now you know the story, do you believe it?” He asked.
“Of course, I do, why do you ask?”
“Because nobody else will,” he said, holding the car door open for me.
“You’ll be surprised how many will believe it,” I said, and after a moments thought, added. “I think I’ll go back by the bog road.”
“You do that,” He said.
After promising to come back in the week for another slice of horror, I drove out of the yard. The bog road is narrow and in bad condition, but it meant I didn’t have to pass that accursed house. I pushed up the rear view mirror so I didn’t have to look in it. I was nervous after listening to Sean’s story, and afraid of what I might see looking back at me. The three miles drive down the lonesome road seemed to take forever, and I didn’t look left or right, aware of the barren landscape and the ghost lights that are seen there. For the first time I was glad when the lights of the main road came into view, and I was done with the darkness for another while.
That’s it for another week, dear reader. Bill has supplied me with a wealth of ghost stories to keep you entertained well up until the witching season, Halloween. Sleep well.
Copyright © 2011 Gemma Mawdsley
Tainted Ground Part 1
The teeth of the big earthmover tore through the earth. It shook its great jaws, knocking aside the headstones and shattering into splinters the names of the dead. A crowd gathered to watch as the three-hundred-year-old graveyard was being pulled asunder in the name of progress. It was many years since anyone was last buried there, but there were those among the watchers who were old enough to recall family graves. Bill took his handkerchief from the pocket of his threadbare jacket and wiped his eyes.
“There’s a sharp wind blowing today,” he said to the woman standing beside him.
She nodded, aware of his distress at the desecration. From somewhere behind him, there came a cry of horror and he looked back into the graveyard. The machine reared its head and he saw the reason for the cry. The bones glared white against the dark earth, as the beast turned and spewed its load into a waiting dumper truck. Some of the workmen were sifting through the wreckage and picking up the bits of headstones. These were thrown into another truck and would not accompany the disturbed dead on their travels to a new location.
The demolition had begun at dawn, and while most of the people from the surrounding district had come and gone during the day, Bill never moved, not even to eat. The cold March wind sent his grey, unruly hair flying and his hands were chilled, causing the arthritis in his old bones to flair, but he stood his ground. At times, he perched on the small wall opposite the graveyard and gnawed on the sugary sweets that he is so fond of. Some of the workmen cast furtive glances his way and he nodded at each of them. He knew they found his constant presence disturbing and thought him a bit of a nut, but he was there for a reason. As the light began to fade, they started on the tombs. The sound of the wrecking ball on the ancient stones was frightening, and he jumped at the sound of each contact. The elaborate carved pieces joined those of the lesser headstone on the separate truck. It was after seven that evening when the men finally knocked off for the night. They would begin demolishing the ruined church the following morning, one of the men told him, and if the weather held, they would be finished by the end of the day. Bill waited until a stout padlock was placed on the gates, before making his way home. He would be back at dawn, and nothing bar death would keep him away.
Let me tell you a little about Bill. He is what most would class as, a wise man. I know the notion seems outdated, but people like him do exist, though we choose to ignore them. In Ireland there are many remote places that still cling to superstition and strange customs, and I found myself in one such place on Sunday last. No one knows for sure how old Bill is. Some of the neighbours I spoke to said he must be in his nineties. One woman swore he was born the same year as her great-grandmother, which to my reckoning would make his over a hundred. He is shy about revealing his true age and when I asked, he laughed and said.
“I’m a few months older than my teeth.”
Whatever age he is, he’s in the best of health. The arthritis gives him a bit of trouble, but he’s otherwise sound. His cottage is an old one and quite picturesque, considering he does all the repairs himself, right down to the straw thatch on the roof. It still has the huge, open fire and when I ducked my head to look up the chimney, I could see the sky, through the curls of peat smoke. He has been promising to tell me the story about the old graveyard for over twenty years. At times he’s given me little hints about what happened after the place was dug up, and I finally tied him down to telling me. As I sat opposite him on that rainy Sunday, I noticed how the light was fading in his eyes, and I felt my stomach go into spasm, when I realised why he’d decided to tell me now. He knows his time on earth is drawing to a close, and he wants me to record all that he has learned over the years. He likes me, because I look like my late grandmother, and it’s rumoured he was in love with her, so this is why I’m being taken into his confidence. He knows I will write and publish his stories, but he doesn’t mind, as long as I change the names.
“Will anyone read them, do you think?” He asked.
“They will read them,” I promised. “People from all over the world will know about you.”
“That’s good,” he stared into the leaping flames. “And maybe, they’ll learn something.”
Bill returned to the graveyard the following day and took his place on the wall. The old, ruined church was still standing, but not for long. As the arm of the wrecking ball drew back to begin its assault, Bill looked away. The truck containing the headstones was full, and it wasn’t long before he saw the driver climbing into the cab. Two of the workmen held the old graveyard gates open to allow it to leave, and Bill watched it progress until it reached the crossroads and turned onto the main road. He knew where it was headed and by crossing the fields, he could catch up with it in no time. It moved slowly under the weight of its dreadful load, and Bill was at its destination point well before it.
“I’d know from the beginning,” he said. “What was going to happen, and I was powerless to stop it. You remember Brian Thomas; he had the building company that went belly up a few years back?”
I knew the man he was talking about. He was known for his shoddy work and only an outsider would even think of hiring him.
“I tried talking to him about it, but he wouldn’t listen. Called me an old crank, if you don’t mind,” Bill looked at me in amazement. “It would have saved those poor people a lot of time and money if he had only listened. The woman of the house had a nervous breakdown after what she witnessed there, you know?”
He was rambling now and I had no idea who he was talking about, but I didn’t want to interrupt. He must have realised what he was doing, as he stopped short.
“Sorry, girl, I’m getting a bit ahead of myself,” he smiled. “Where was I?”
“In the field, waiting for the truck,” I said.
There was a huge hole in the centre of the field, with mounds of earth piled up on either side. The warning signal, as the truck backed over the grass, became a death knell to Bill as he watched the hydraulic arm edge the bed of the truck upwards. The rumbling and grating of the headstones and bits of tombs sounded like thunder, as they fell into the waiting, black chasm.
“I waited until the truck drove away,” Bill said. “Once it was out of sight, I went over to the hole and looked down at the stones. I saw names on some of the broken bits, the odd date, and a headless angel, probably from one of the finer graves, but it would need more than her divine intervention to stop what was about to happen. I took a small holy water bottle from my pocket and shook it around the hole. I threw my old rosary’s bead it for good measure, but I knew, even as I carried out the small blessing, that it was not enough.”
He shook his head, sadly and went back to staring into the flames. I had no idea where the story was going, but I waited in the silence until he was ready to proceed.
“Two days later, the hole was filled in,” he said. “When I went back the ground was smooth over with concrete and there was no sign of what lay beneath the earth, waiting.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “What were they doing?”
“That cur, Thomas, had used the headstones for the foundations of a house he was building.”
“No,” I was aghast at the idea.
“Oh, it’s not the first time something like this has happened,” he said. “And is it any wonder there are so many disturbed places in this country? The dead should be left alone. They have had their time on this earth, and deserve to be remembered. Taking their markers like that was pure sacrilege, and they wouldn’t put up with it. No, from the minute those stones hit the earth, it was tainted ground and there’d be no rest for anyone living above it.”
He got up to switch on the light, as the evening was drawing in. He heaped more sods of turf on the fire, and I was glad of the heat. I wasn’t sure if it was the cold or the story that made me shiver.
“What happened after the house was built?” I asked.
“A lovely couple bought it. They had two little girls and had come away from the city in search of a better life. A better life,” he gave a sad laugh. “They bought themselves a nightmare.”
A knock at the door of the cottage made me jump.
“That will be Sean now,” Bill eased his aching bones out of the chair. “It was he bought the house in the first place. I told him you would be here and he agreed to see you. I thought it better you hear it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.”
I watched Bill walk out into the small hallway and heard the opening of the door and his words of greeting. I picked up my glass and went to the sink. The water in the cottage comes from a well in the garden, and it’s always cold and clean-tasting. I was glad of its touch on my dry throat, because I knew once Bill’s visitor appeared, I would have to share in his nightmare.
Sean O Rourke looks ever day his fifty nine years and the wrinkles around his eyes are not caused by laughter. It is obvious he has suffered, and even if I didn’t know his story, I would have suspected as much. The first few moments after the introduction were awkward, but once Bill placed a glass of whiskey in his hand, Sean settled down. After a few sips he relaxed and the tension in his shoulders eased.
“I take it that Bill has told you about the house?” He looked at me.
“Yes, he had just finished the story when you knocked,” I said.
“You know its over twenty-three years and I still can’t shake the feeling of unease,” he took a big gulp from his glass. “I’m constantly on edge, looking over my shoulder, you know?”
I nodded; there was little I could say at this point.
“It’s the house down by the crossroads,” he said, explaining exactly where it was.
I knew the place well, but had assumed that its unlived in state was due to the usual Cain and Abel dispute, that occurs so often in this part of the country, as brother fights with brother over some parcel of land. I never took the time to ask about the house, as it is quite modern compared to the others surrounding it, and one doesn’t think of ghosts haunting new buildings. I have come to realise that this is not the case, and it is not only at night that things go bump. This is Sean’s story. I hope I can convey some of the terror of what he felt, not to frighten you, but so you can imagine the effect it had on his life.
Join me next week, as the tale unfolds, but don’t read it at night. It is at this time, when the curtain of night descends, that our senses are at their most potent, and we are more open to the creeping terrors of those things that lurk within the darkness.
Copyright © 2011 Gemma Mawdsley
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