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.
paranormal
All posts tagged paranormal
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.
Busy working on my new novel for teenagers. There’s no vampires or werewolves, but it promises to be dark, very dark.
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.
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.
gemmamawdsley 