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.
Haunted Places
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My book The Paupers’ Graveyard has really taken off in the U.S.A. It is also available to download on ebooks and has been approved for young adults who love a good ghost story.
Paupers' Graveyard
I have just heard from my publisher that my novel The Paupers’ Graveyard is taking off big time on ebooks. Will those of you who have read it and have an account on Amazon.Com please go on and write a review for me. I would really appreciate it, thanks.
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
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.
gemmamawdsley 