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.
Haunted Houses
All posts tagged Haunted Houses
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.
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 PAUPERS GRAVEYARD
It is the sort of noise that wakes us in the dead of night. A vague sound from somewhere within the house that sets the heart racing. We lie in the dark, alert and waiting for it to come again, panic is barely contained, while seconds tick by like hours, and beads of perspiration break out all over our body.
Gathering strength, we reach for the bedside lamp and, once its comforting yellow glows dispels the dark, it is safe enough to rise and move from room to room, checking locks and window fastenings. Only when closets and under the bed have been searched, to rule out the presence of a knife-welding maniac or sharp-toothed monster, does our heartbeat begin to regulate. Finally, silently, cursing the night and our own stupid fears, we climb under the warm covers again and turn off the lamp. With a little luck we will soon fall back to sleep, and by morning, the nightmare will be over, forgotten.
Timmy woke to such a sound. At first he thought someone had called his name and he lay in the dark, waiting. In days gone by, it would have sent him scurrying to his mother for comfort. Strangely, though, his heart was not pounding as he imagined it should be. It did not seem to be beating at all. There were no beads of sweat on his brow. He was cold, freezing cold. He should have been afraid, and yet he was not.
It was only when the sound came again, a child’s voice crying out in terror, that he became aware of the weight on his chest, and the terrible taste in his mouth. He tried to identify the dry powder that coated his lips, but his tongue refused to move. It felt alien and heavy, and then he realised that it too was weighed down by the same substance. Still he didn’t panic, didn’t try to take what could have been deep suffocating breaths. Instead, he quietly, accepted that he was lying there covered by the earth.
Gemma Mawdsley Novels COMPETITION TIME: Since we have reached 200 likes on Gemma Mawdsley Novels, we are giving away a signed copy of “The Paupers Graveyard” to 3 lucky people with a personalised message from Gemma. All you have to do to win is write you name in a comment under this post. The person’s with the most likes on there name by 23.59pm (Irish time) this Sunday will receive a copy. (People must Like both page and name to qualify as a like)http://www.facebook.com/pages/Gemma-Mawdsley-Novels/187399587974967
Sorry there has been such a delay in posting the second part of the above story. I’ve had so much to do and not enough hours in the day, but I promised some of you that I would finish the story and post it on Monday next and I intend to keep to that promise. So while you’re all relaxing and enjoying your weekend, I’ll be shackled to my computer.
A Ghost Story for Christmas
“He’s evil, there’s no other word to describe him.”
Mike Wallace smiled, as his recalled his friend’s words. He found consolation in the fact the Frank O Connor, his best friend, had always been one for overstatement and while his flair for the dramatic bode well for him in his chosen field of law, it tended to grate on the nerves of those who preferred plain speaking. The bus jolted again and he was forced to grab on to the seatback in front of him. When he bought the ticket, the company boasted that its buses were fitted with all the mod cons and that was the case, but there wasn’t a vehicle built yet that could cope with the rough terrain they travelled over. The place he was heading for drew thousands of tourists each year that came in search of peace in its scarred wilderness, but somehow, the council’s budget was spent on something they considered much more pressing than the roads. Perhaps, they imagined the potholed and uneven surfaces added to the sense of timelessness and those who flocked in search of sanctuary found their condition quaint. The bus swayed from side to side as the driver tried to navigate around the bumps. Mike’s stomach lurched and he realised he was feeling seasick on dry land. The rain battering against the windows made it impossible to see anything outside, other than the odd flash of white from fields where sheep grazed and the grey multi-toned shadows of stone built walls. The heater on the bus vied with that of the air conditioning so the interior was humid. This increased the stench as those with stouter stomachs than his bit into an assortment of sandwiches. The scent of assorted meats rose making his stomach revolt and he tried to concentrate on a raindrop, following its progress down the glass. The bus slowed and lumbered to a stop at the side of the road.
“Maam’s Cross,” the drive called, as he stood up to stretch his aching bones.
Two sets of doors hissed open and the cold air that rushed in was a welcome relief. Not far to go now, Mike thought, as he watched his fellow passengers reach for the luggage rack above their heads. Some smiled and said goodbye as they passed by him and he returned their farewell with a nod. All wore the smug expression of the weary traveller who knew his journey was at an end.
“If anyone wants to stretch their legs,” the driver said. “We’ll be stopping here for ten minutes.”
Some took advantage of this and ran with head bent against the rains onslaught, to the building across the road. Nothing would stop the determined smoker getting a fix before continuing on their way. It was cold now, as the driver had left the doors open, so Mike pulled his coat from beneath the holdall on the seat beside him. It would serve as a blanket for now and he was glad of the familiar scent of the wool. It was quiet within the bus as those who chose to remain were weary and without realising Mike drifted off to sleep. As he slept, he brought a hand up trying to brush away Frank’s words, but their echo remained.
Mike sat in the modern, plush reception area of O Connor and Co Solicitors, waiting for his friend to appear. The smiling receptionist assured him that Mr O Connor was just finishing up with a client and would be with him shortly. Mike thanked her and accepted her offer of a coffee while he waited. Frank could take as long as he liked, as far as Mike was concerned. The radiator behind his chair was going full blast and its heat was comforting after the cold and damp of his bedsit. The clothes he wore still gave a hint of prosperity, but he doubted if the young woman behind the desk would have been as gushing if she knew his real circumstances.
It was hard to believe how far he had fallen in the past two years. His once thriving company was no more as the Celtic Tiger’s roar was reduced to a whimper. At the first sign of trouble his wife decided that their happy marriage wasn’t so happy after all and took off, but not before stripping him of his few remaining assets. He was now like thousands of men in the forties with a wealth of experience behind him and no job prospects. This was the reason he was waiting to speak to Frank. His friend phoned that morning hinting about a job that might suit. Mike was glad of anything that took him out of the squalor of his surrounding and gave him something to do. December arrived and brought with it the threat of snow. During his lower moments Mike envisioned himself being found frozen to death like those he’d read about in the past, the loners, the unwanted, he could never have imagined empathising with until now. The pills his doctor prescribe helped take the edge off, but his nerves were at breaking point.
“Hey buddy,” Frank came breezing out from his inner sanctum.
Mike stood up and the men touched shoulders, their idea of a manly hug.
“Come on in,” Frank held the door open for him. “I ordered lunch in, so we’ll have a chance to talk.”
Mike knew, as he followed his friend down the thickly carpeted hallway, that Frank was doing this to be kind. He was well aware at how badly off Mike was, almost starving at times, but knew better than to offer any kind of monetary help as this would have ended their friendship faster than any insult could.
“How about a drink?” Frank pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk.
“Not for me, thanks,” Mike shook his head and sat in the seat opposite the desk; dismissing his refusal with a white lie. “I’m on antibiotics.”
“Of course, stupid of me,” Frank slammed the drawer shut. “I ordered some soft drinks with the food.”
As if on cue, the young woman from reception phoned to say the delivery boy was there. Excusing himself, Frank hurried from the room and came back laded down with paper bags.
“Spicy king prawn, right?” He asked, tearing through the paper in his haste to feed his friend.
“You’ve enough there to feed an army,” Mike laughed, as tray after tray was placed before him.
“You’re my excuse to pig out,” Frank handed him a plastic fork and knife. “Sheila says I’m getting a bit of a paunch,” he patted his stomach. “I am too.”
Mike bit down on an aromatic, pink prawn and for a moment his senses were overwhelmed. It was ages since he’d tasted anything so good. His usual fare consisted of bread, beans and tea. He realised Frank was watching him and the concern in his face made Mike throat grow tight. To lighten the atmosphere, he asked.
“What’s this about a job?”
“Ah, yes,” Frank twirled some noodles round his fork. “You might think it a bit beneath you, but I thought it was worth running by you.”
He searched through the papers on the desk as he chewed.
“Here it is,” he handed Mike a map.
“And?” Mike waited for him to go on.
“Well, it’s like this. We have a client, he’s been with the firm since my father’s time and he needs some help in getting his papers in order. It’s more secretarial work really, but there’s no typing or any of that sort of stuff. The money is good and there’s free accommodation.”
“It’s in the middle of nowhere,” Mike studied the map.
“That’s why I thought of you and he said he didn’t want some young filly,” Frank took another mouthful of food.
“I don’t have much experience.” Mike said.
“Nonsense, you know all about paperwork,” Frank waved away his worry. “It will have to be done by hand though. Our Mr Price is not one for computers.”
“It would get me away from the city,” Mike thought out loud.
The Christmas lights and music were a constant reminder at how much he had lost.
“He’s willing to pay all expenses,” Frank continued. “Though there’s only the bus fare and maybe a taxi to get you from the bus stop to the house, once you arrive.”
“Tell me a bit about your Mr Price,” Mike said.
“There’s not that much to tell,” Frank avoided his eyes. “He’s old money, lives in one of the few manor houses that are still occupied in this day and age. My father knew him better than I, but he’s stinking rich, that’s one thing I do know.”
“There’s something else,” Mike said. “Something you’re not telling me.”
“It’s probably just me,” Frank gave a nervous laugh. “You know what my imaginations like.”
“Go on.”
“I’ve only met the man twice,” Frank dabbed his lips with a paper napkin. “But I didn’t like him.”
“For what reason?” Mike asked.
“There’s something about him, something unwholesome.”
“Tell me the truth,” Mike inched forward in his seat. “We’ve never lied to one another before, so be straight with me now.”
“He’s evil,” Frank shrugged his shoulder and had the grace to blush. “I know you think the word a bit over the top, but that’s how I feel about him.”
“Why, what had he done?”
“Nothing that I know of,” again the nervous laugh. “He’s got no criminal record and I’ve heard no stories about him. It’s just an impression.”
“Fine,” Mike sat back in his chair. “I’ll no doubt find out for myself.”
“So you’ll take the job?”
“I’ve nothing better to do. How long will it last?”
“No more than a week, but as I said, the money is excellent and you’ll have a change of scene and the sea air will do you good,” Frank opened the drawer in front of him and took out an envelope. “There’s two hundred there,” he pushed the envelope across to Mike.
“I don’t need charity,” Mike felt his face grow hot with indignation.
“I wouldn’t dare,” Frank said. “I’m giving you this on Mr Price’s orders. It’s some up front money so you can buy your ticket and whatever else you need.”
“Very well,” Mike tucked the envelope into the pocket of his coat. “When do I leave?”
“As soon as possible; Mr Price is anxious for you to start and I’ve told him all about you.”
“Oh yeah,” Mike gave a weak smile. “That couldn’t have taken very long. Does he live alone?”
“No, there’s a maiden aunt, as far as I know, but no other relations.”
The conversation changed as they finished their meal and they spoke of childhood days and the mischief they usually managed to get into. The past few years were a taboo subject that was best left alone.
The sound of the engine shuddering into life brought Mike back to consciousness with a start. He sat up straight and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. The rain had stopped and as the windows dried he saw how narrow the roads had become. At times he was sure the bus would hit the wall that ran the length of the road, but the skill and experience of the driver was amazing. At times they stopped to let an oncoming vehicle pass and he was able to view the land. On his left the shadow of the 12 Bens mountain range cast its shadow over the fields. On his right and in the distance, a blue line showed him the first promise of theAtlantic Ocean. There were three more stops until he reached his destination and he felt a strange sense of loss as the last passenger alighted and he was alone with the driver.
“Not long now sir,” the driver called down the aisle.
“I’ll come up and keep you company, if you don’t mind?” Mike stood and put on his coat.
Picking up his holdall he walked to the front of the bus and sat down. Mike felt like a child again, sitting in the front seat with almost a bird’s eye view of the road ahead.
“You visiting family?” The driver asked.
“No, I’m here to work.” Mike said.
“And what sort of work would that be?” The driver seemed amazed.
Mike told him the name of his new employer.
“Do you know him?” Mike asked.
“Aye, I know him well enough,” the man seemed unwilling to elaborate further and they travelled the next few miles in silence.
Mike was surprised to see a taxi waiting when the bus finally arrived at his destination.
“I’m in luck,” he smiled at the driver.
“That’s Bob Ross. He’s got the only taxi around these parts. There’s not a lot of call for it, but he must have known you were coming.”
Mike picked up his holdall and climbed down the steps.
“Thanks a lot,” he said to the bus driver.
“God protect you from all harm,” the man’s face was grey in the descending twilight.
Christ, Mike thought, as he walked towards the waiting taxi. I’m Jonathan Harker about to meet my own Dracula. Once settled in the back seat, he patted the pouch in the front of the holdall and heard the soothing rattle of the pill bottle. His antidepressants would have there work cut out for them if everything he heard about the elusive Mr Price was true. His hands shook a little as he patted the course material beneath his fingers. The effect of his last dose was wearing off and the memory of Frank’s words and the bus driver’s superstitious nonsense hadn’t helped. This was the 21st century and there was nothing that science could not explain. There were no vampires, no monsters or hideous creatures of the night.
He had a lot to learn.
Copyright © Gemma Mawdsley
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.
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.
gemmamawdsley 