My latest novel Whispers is doing very well in America. Have a look at the link below.
He’d not succeeded that night, but he was no fool. He knew what he was up against in the old woman. There were many others not as strong, who would easily succumb to his promises and they were not so far away. The birdsong irritated him; the light slanting through the trees blinded him. He’d rest now and allow those of his legions who worked by day to do his bidding. He belonged to the night and would need to gather strength for the task ahead. For he was about to do something he’d not done in centuries; he was about to take on human form.
PROLOGUE
These stories are not meant to soothe you. There’ll be no tranquil closing of the book as eyelids droop and senses surrender to sleep. These sensations belong to another time, when you believed such things the work of fiction and the horror within them beyond the bounds of probability.
Now you’ve chosen to enter another world, a place where tales unfold from the pages of everyday life and Death. There’s no pretence and they require little imagination in the telling. The human monsters, and you will encounter a few, are real. At times one or more personalities combine, but each one is made up of man’s cruellest traits. I make no excuses for their depravity, they have no redeeming features. Sadly, we all know such loathsome creatures.
The dead choose to speak for reasons of their own and I allow them free rein. It takes a sensitive ear to distinguish the muffled cries from the spirit world, above those of the general hum-drum. It requires an open mind to realise internment beneath the cold earth is not the end.
So read on and listen as only you can to the voices from beyond the grave. Share with them the human emotions of love, hate, fear, revenge and in the end, the most important of all acceptance and forgiveness.
Try to ignore the shadowy corners of the room; there’s nothing there. They are what they appear to be, empty pockets of darkness. Sleep well.
Her mother named her after a saint, but in truth Annie was not a saint; neither was she a devil. She was just…different, in a time when it was dangerous to be so. The year was 1653, a time of great unrest, when the shadow of Cromwell’s forces moved over the land leaving death and destruction in their wake and bringing untold suffering to a once peaceful nation.
The sun had set on what was a very warm midsummer’s day inIreland. It no sooner disappeared below the horizon, than it was replaced by the full moon. The glowing red clouds left behind with the promise of a warmer day to come, reached out caressed the moon and turned it to blood. An uneasy quiet shrouded the countryside. Night creatures rose from slumbering to begin their nocturnal foraging, tiny grey bats swooped through the still air and the call of the night owl was heard from deep within the forests. It was a night like any other, until the wailing started.
The animals heard it first, picking up their ears and sniffing the air. The sound caused both fur and feather to rise. None of them waited to hear it reach a crescendo preferring to take cover in their dens, warrens and tree trunks. It was a sound to chill the blood of any listener. Starting with a sigh and rising to a mournful keen that cut into the soul. It was the lament of someone who’d known great sorrow and loss.
The people who heard its warning crossed themselves in fear. Some muttered a silent prayer for its intended victim before locking any open window and pulling the curtains closed, despite the cloying heat. Children tossed fitfully in their sleep sensing the cry. Farmers, who were still at work in the fields, left what they were doing and hurried home.
Those who understood its meaning dared not speak of it. Fearful glances were exchanged, televisions were turned up as loud as possible, but nothing could mask the cry. It invaded the air, crept through cracks and keyholes, it would be heard. There was nothing to stop it. Man, despite all his modern technology, was not adept to deal with such a thing.
Its voice had haunted countless generations of the O Brien family, warning them of a coming death, but it hadn’t been heard for many years. Now, it was back and with a vengeance. It continued all through the night only quieting with the coming of dawn. The old, who understood too well its voice, lay awake until the last notes faded in the lightening air. Never before had they heard its cry last for so long or be more powerful. Instinct told them this was to be no ordinary passing for its prey. The voice they heard wanted more.
She was finally awake. The Dark One’s curse was almost at an end. Gathering her waist length hair about her, she raked her fingers through it picking out dead leaves and bits of twigs. She’d lain in limbo throughout the centuries and was only allowed on the earth for a short time, to herald each death of that accursed family. This was what she’d waited for. He was the last male in his line and soon he’d be no more. All the evil and wickedness would be brought to an end and she could rest in peace. Her crying would cease once he was dead. She’d wrap herself around him, her arms the embrace of a cold lover and they’d return to the dark earth together. He’d no other choice; he was powerless to resist her. There is no escaping the cry of the Banshee
The voices of the island called to her and the rapping of long-dead fingers on the window pane drew her out from the warmth of her bed. Pushing the quilt aside, she stood and walked across the room. Her coat lay when she had carelessly discarded it, across the back of a chair and she was unaware when the surface beneath her bare feet changed from the soft wool of carpet to the cold floorboards. The storm, which was threatening all day, tonight flew in on blackened wings that darkened the water and carried within its roars the voices of a thousand souls in torment. Power lines were flung aside in its fury and trees bereft of spring foliage, bent gnarled claws towards the earth. Bymidnightall was quiet within the small hotel. The only sound came from the padding of her bare feet as she tip-toed down the stairs, aware of those around her whose sleep remained calm and dreams undisturbed. The wind tried to tear the front door from her grasp and she had to battle with its strength, sure that at any moment the knob would be wrenched from her hands and the sound of splintering wood and glass against the wall would be enough to wake the dead; the irony of this was lost on her. A force stronger than the wind had called her to the island. It promised an end to her quest for fulfilment and a release from the pills and alcohol that marred her life, she was powerless to resist.
The island lay enveloped in night. The moon hid behind leaden clouds and not a single light showed the way, but she knew that somewhere within that blanket of darkness a figure beckoned. A gust caught at her coat and powerful, invisible hands tried to pull her back, but she broke free and ran as fast as the wind allowed. She gathered the wool tighter around her hoping to find some warmth within its folds, but the very cold seemed to emanate from within her.
The gates of the Nunnery slammed shut as she passed and the well-worn latch clicked into place as she was once again denied sanctuary. She had lived this rejection before, not once, but a thousand times. Cowled figures, blacker than the night, stood watching from within, their eyes dark hallows in ashen faces. She no longer feared them, for she had known them in another time. Still, she felt in her heart their sorrow and loneliness, as raw as the earth under which their earthly bodies now lay. She could have turned back, but chose instead to follow the path of so many of her Sisters before her. Twice she slipped on the wet earth as she climbed the hill leading to the Abbey and she was breathless and shivering from cold and fear as she began the ascent to the Tor. When she reached the top, a single flame from a candle shone through the window of the writing room and she knew at once what was about to pass. She had heard such things whispered about late at night and thought the tales of missing Sisters, nothing more than pranks to frighten the other novices. As she walked, she relived their cries and gasps of horror until Mother Abbess’s stern words sent them running to their beds. She licked at the salty sweat on her upper lip and moved towards the door. The wound in the earth lay open and bleeding and she tried not to look into its black chasm. A leaf flew against her face, its touch on her cheek the slap of a cold, dead hand and she hurried inside. Her entrance was greeted by a scowl from the figure hunched over the writing desk as he cupped his hand around the candle flame to protect if from the wind.
“You’re late, Sister,” he said, pointing to a bench beside him.
She slipped down on to the hard oak and watched in silence as he went about his work, tracing delicate scrolls onto a sheet of vellum. Small, earthenware pots littered the work surface and their contents of, reds, blues, greens and gold, dripped down their sides and stained the wood beneath them.
“The colour is still not right,” he threw down the feathered nib and rubbed his forehead in irritation. “It has to be precise and such work demands sacrifice.”
He turned to her as though just remembering her presence.
“Hold out your arm, little Sister.”
She did as he asked, but her heart beat painfully against her chest as he picked up the dagger. Its cruel blade caught the candle light and its sting was sharp and deep when he brought it down on her wrist. The metal of the great goblet he used to harvest her life’s blood, felt cold against her fevered skin. When he was finished, she watched through dying eyes as powders were mixed with her blood. She saw his smile of satisfaction as he retook his seat, dipped the nib into the unholy brew and traced the red onto the serpent’s tongue.
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.
The room was icy cold, as cold as the body lying in the open coffin. Jeffery Power glanced at the prone figure before walking over to the window. The rain had stopped hours before, but there was no let up in the weather as the first flakes of snow stuck to the glass. Jeffery’s hands were numb, the skin on his fingers split and sore, but he smiled despite the pain. In fact, he rather enjoyed it, peeling back the dead skin and shuddering when he drew blood. Few things gave him much pleasure these days and his body was too frail for the pursuits of his youth. Still, I’m doing better than you; he sneered and walked over to the coffin. His grand-aunt Milly’s body resembled that of some ancient mummy. She had never been robust in life, but death had reduced her to a mere husk, as though her very essence had been sucked from her and she might, at any moment, dissolve into dust. Her cheeks were sunken in, as were her eye sockets, the only thing about her that resembled anything human, was the slight, secret smile on her thin lips.
“You think you’ve escaped me, don’t you old girl,” Jeffrey’s voice echoed in the stillness of the empty house. “But I’ll find a way. I’ll follow you into the grave and continue with our little game.”
He walked back to the window, his footsteps hallow on the bare floorboards. He had never depended on another human being before, but he had to admit he would miss the old bat. She had supplied him with endless years of fun and the games they played kept him amused, but that was now in the past and he would need someone else to help him pass the hours; someone stronger than his aunt, someone who did not scare as easily as she had. Milly stayed with him because she had no where else to go. A dried up old spinster, Jeffery called her and he was right. She was plain and stick-thin, one leg shrunken from the effects of polio and not a penny to her name, other than the old age pension, she had remained under his roof believing it was better the devil you know, but there were none worse than Jeffery Power. Had she the courage, she would have left years before, but instead she remained to endure his cruelty until in her ninety-second year death had released her.
Jeffery rubbed the grime from the inside of the glass and peered out into the gloom. His new secretary was due to arrive at any moment and he expected to see the headlights of Ross’s old car appearing in the distance. Frank O Connor, his solicitor, had told him everything he needed to know about the man and Jeffery licked his lips at the memory of his words.
“He’s suffered a lot over the past two years,” O Connor said. “His nerves are not the best. He’s taking medication and he’s otherwise sound, so I think he might suit you.”
“Indeed he will, Mr Wallace” Jeffery spoke aloud. “I think he will suit me very well. What do you think old girl?”
He didn’t bother to turn to look at the corpse.
“I may have found your successor already. I think there is fun to be had.” 
A noise from behind made him spin round. The room was wreath in deepening shadows that crept along the walls and took shelter in the dark corners. He felt his pulse quicken, as he walked over to the wall and turned on the overhead light. The bulbs in the chandelier were too weak to dispel the gloom, but they lit the centre of the room and threw the coffin into stark relief. He prowled around the walls, his eyes darting along the floor, ears straining, waiting for the sound to come again. He stopped and stood frozen, but the only sounds came from the crying of the wind and the humming of his blood in his ears. Perhaps, I made a mistake after all, he thought. Father Bob, the local priest, had fallen and broken his leg. It needed a small operation to repair the bone and he wouldn’t be back for three days. It seemed pointless to send for someone to replace him as the church only opened on Sunday’s now that the congregation had dwindled down to a handful.
“Send you’re aunt’s body to Burke’s Funeral Home,” the old priest suggested, before the ambulance carried him off. “I’ll be back in no time and I can perform the burial then. Your aunt was a good, god-fearing woman and I’d like to do this one last thing for her.”
Burke’s Funeral Home indeed, Jeffery huffed. Did the old man have any idea what those places charged just to have a body lying in state? No, he would keep the old bat at home, but only after choosing the cheapest coffin and the most basic of the undertaker’s services.
The taxi’s headlight lit the room as it drove into the courtyard. Jeffrey, forgetting his uneasiness, hurried down the hallway to the front door. Mike Wallace stepped out of the car and stared open-mouthed at the house. Frank mentioned it was a manor, but this was much more impressing than he had imagined. The main, three story house was vast with numerous small building flanking either side of the courtyard. A fountain, dried up now, but nonetheless awe inspiring stood at the centre, but the overall impression was one of faded grandeur. Flurries of snow blew against his face, but the cold was beyond him as he walked up the steps to the front door.
“Mike Wallace, I take it?”
“Yes, that’s right,” Mike held out his hand, but his greeting was rebuffed.
“I’m Jeffrey Price,” his new boss stepped back to allow him to enter. “I’ll show you to your room and we can get down to business as soon as you’re settled in.”
The hallway was a vast cavern, the walls lined with mahogany wainscoting that flowed down to a wooden floor pitted with the imprint of passing feet. Mike’s mouth felt dry, but this was an effect of the pills he took and his tongue felt like sandpaper when he licked his parched lips. If his welcome at the manor was not all he had expected nothing could have prepared him for the sight that met him when they passed the door of one of rooms on the ground floor. Mike stopped his eyes wide as he gazed at the scene before him. His employer, sensing he was no longer following, stopped and walked back to where he stood.
“That’s old aunt Milly,” the voice made the hairs on Mike’s neck stand. “She’ll be with us for another few days, I fear. The parish priest was careless enough to injure his leg and we must wait for him to return before we can plant the old dear. Until then we are forced to live with the smell of coffin varnish and the musky scent of death.”
Mike turned to look at the man in horror. He thought back to Frank’s words about the man standing before him being evil. Was it possible, he wondered? There was a glint of something not quite right in his employer’s ashen face, a sort of gloating at his discomfort. As though sensing this, Jeffrey smiled.
“Not a very hospitable welcome I know, but I am in mourning and not quite myself.”
“Of course,” Mike tried to control the chattering of his teeth. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” Jeffrey held out his hand. “Shall we proceed?”
If it were not for the stout banister, Mike doubted he would have managed the climb up the once ornate staircase. The upper hallway was a dark and forbidding as the one below and the dim bulbs lining the walls did little to light the way.
“You’re in here,” Jeffrey opened the door to one of the rooms and walked inside.
Mike followed and saw the room was much like he’d seen of the house so far, neglected and in need of a loving touch. He dumped his holdall on the bed and its impact on the blankets dislodged a layer of dust that floating into the air and caused Jeffrey to wave his hand in front of his face.
“Old aunt Milly was never one for housekeeping,” he smiled. “But it’s clean and I’m sure you will soon settle in. Come downstairs when you’re ready. I’ll be in the library; it’s the room opposite the one housing the coffin.”
There was a door in the wall leading to an adjoining room.
“Where is your room?” Mike asked.
“I’m at the opposite end of the house,” Jeffrey said. “Through there is old aunt Milly’s room. We didn’t like to live in one another’s pockets, so we stayed as far apart as possible. By the way, I would prefer we keep our working relationship on a formal level. You will address me as Mr Price and I will do you the same courtesy”
Mike was still staring at the wall dividing him from the dead woman’s room, when his door closed and he was left alone in the silence. His host was kind enough to have placed a water jug and glass on a table beside the bed and Mike’s hand shook as he poured the water. His throat was so dry he almost choked as he tried to swallow the two tranquilisers and he gagged as he gulped more of the cold liquid. I can do this, he thought; it’s only for a week. He had always had a terrible fear of the dead. Even as a little boy he would run and hide if he saw a hearse coming and now here he was in the middle of nowhere, in a strange house with a corpse.
Jeffrey managed to contain his laughter until he reached the library. Throwing himself down on the couch, he buried his face in a cushion as his body shook and tears rolled down his face. He had hoped that his new secretary would be easy to manipulate, but this was much more than he’d hoped for. The man was a bag of nerves; one could almost feel the thin strings holding his last shred of sanity to a failing mind. How long would he last? It was a challenge to imagine, but not very long, that was for sure.
Jeffrey had composed himself by the time Mike tentative knock sounded on the door.
“Have you settled in all right?” Jeffrey asked.
“Yes, I’m ready to begin when you are,” Mike was unaware of his glazed expression as the pills did their work, but it was not lost on Jeffrey.
“I have been remiss,” Jeffrey said. “In my sadness I have forgotten my manners,” he walked to the door and beckoned Mike to follow. “You’ll no doubt want to pay your respects?”
Mike felt sick as he followed his employer into the room opposite. Jeffrey stopped when he reached the coffin and waited. Mike stayed as far back as he could and averted his eyes.
“Come closer man,” Jeffrey’s voice boomed.
Mike edged neared, but kept his eyes on the floor.
“Can you see the family resemblance?” Jeffrey taunted.
Mike’s eyes were filled with tears of dread as he looked at the body in the coffin. Despite his terror and the corpse’s fearful features, there was something terrible sad about the still figure, something that touched his soul and allowed the tears to run unaided.
“Come, come now old chap,” Jeffrey smiled. “There’s no need for such sentiment. Old Milly wouldn’t like it and we don’t want to upset her.”
Was he mad, Mike wondered; why would he worry about upsetting the dead woman?
“She loved this old house you see?” Jeffrey noticed his frown. “Vowed she would never leave it,” he leaned over the coffin and brushed a stray, grey hair from the old lady’s forehead. “I swear, I’ve heard her footsteps, but it was probably my mind playing tricks. Come, we have work to do.”
The next few hours flew as Mike kept his mind on the multitude of papers and bills that need filing and placed in order. His employer had placed a small desk opposite his own and Mike was aware of his constant presence. No matter how hard he tried to concentrate his mind kept drifting back to opposite room and the cold, still form of the old lady. She resembled her nephew in many ways, Mike thought. They were both petite, almost bird-like in both height and stature. This may have been becoming in a woman, but it gave Jeffrey a rather effeminate look and this perhaps, went a long way to explaining his strange character. It was close tomidnightwhen Jeffrey finally decided they were done for the day. He had left the room only once during those long hours and that was to return with a tray baring a meagre repast that was to serve as their dinner. A small tray of ham, its edges curling from age or exposure, Mike didn’t like to think of either and some bread, its crust showing the first sign of mould. Mike pleaded an upset stomach and settled for the weak brew Jeffrey called tea. His stomach revolted as he watched his employer wolf down the stale food as though it was prepared by the finest chef and he was glad when he was able to retreat to the sanctuary of his room. He lay on top of the dusty covers and considered his options. The bus to the nearest town ran once a day and the main road was miles away from the manor. He could call for the taxi, but he’s seen no sign of a phone in the house. His finances meant he could no longer afford a mobile phone, but his employer must have one; how else could he communicate with the outside world? Tiny fingers tapped against the window rousing him from his thoughts. He walked over, pushed aside the heavy, brocade curtains and stared out into the snow-covered courtyard. Beyond the house and the white, carpeted fields, there was nothing other than black, endless night. The wind howled and threw small flurries of snow against the glass. Unlike the city, there was nothing to break its onslaught and he imagined it tearing across the barren landscape like of giant beast; pushing aside the pointed rocks and ripping the withered trees from their roots. Allowing the curtains to fall back into place, he went back to the bed. His sleeping pills sat waited and he decided to take two rather than his usual one, but not before making sure his room became a bastion of safety. He had locked the door leading to the hallway, but there was none in the lock to the adjoining room. It might be on the other side, he thought, but did he dare enter the room of the recently dead? If the key was there it would be easy enough to tell, so he knelt down and placed his eye against the keyhole. For a moment he froze his mouth open in a silent scream at the eye staring back at him. Scrambling across the worn carpet on his hands and knees, he reached up for the bottles of pills on the bedside table hoping to find sanctuary in their promise of oblivion. When he woke some hours later he was lying on the bed.
Jeffrey stifled a giggle as he donned his aunt’s wig. This was more fun than he ever imagined. The top button of her ankle-length dress was open and he buttoned this in a false display of modesty. His feet were too big for her shoes, but he doubted his intended victim would notice. Creeping out into the hallway, he tip-toed to Mike’s door and tapped on it.
“Who is it?” The terror was evident in Mike’s voice.
The tapping came again, more insistent this time. Mike slid off the bed and his legs felt like jelly as he stumbled to the door. The dim lights in the hallway were on and lit upon the figure of the woman descending the stairs. It was the same figure he’d seen lying in the coffin. He became a child again as he ran for the refuge of his bed and scurried under it. Curling into a ball, he was unaware of the warmth of the urine staining his pants or the sound of his own sobbing.
“What a lot of fuss about nothing,” the voice was kind. “Come out from there young man.”
Mike peeped through is fingers at the legs just visible below the blankets. They seemed real enough and there was certainly nothing threatening in her words.
“I know this is all very frightening,” she continued,” But if you come out, I can explain it all to you. Come on now, like a good boy.”
Mike stretched and crawled from beneath the bed. The old lady was sitting in one of the chairs beside the dead fire. She looked a little in feature like the woman in the coffin, but there the resemblance ended, as this old lady was pink-cheeked and bright eyed.
“You have no idea how often I’ve prayed for someone to come and help me,” she gestured to the chair opposite hers.
Mike sat and waited wide-eyed for her to continue.
“He’s an evil man, my nephew,” she said. “It’s he who tried to frighten you just now and it’s a game he’s played many times in the past.”
“I thought he had only one aunt?” Mike managed to find his voice.
“He has, the dreadful boy,” she said.
“Then who are you?”
“I’m Millicent of course, though he calls me Milly to annoy.”
“But you’re supposed to be dead.”
“I am dead, young man,” her smile was kind, as she held up a hand to stay his flight. “Now there’s no use rushing for those pills. They’ve done their work”
“I don’t understand,” Mike felt the tears threatening again and he swore his heart had stopped beating.
“Look,” she nodded at the bed.
He turned and looked over at the bed. The empty pill bottles told their own story as his eyes scanned the prone figure on the bed.
“I killed myself?” He tore his gaze away from the flames.
“Yes, I’m afraid life proved too hard for you,” she said.
Mike stared down at his hands. He ran his fingers over his face and the skin felt cold and hard.
“It was my prayers that called you back,” Millicent said. “With your help I can destroy the evil in this house.”
“What will become of me afterwards?” Mike asked.
“I hope you will choose to stay here with me, but if not, you are free to move on. There is none of the restriction we once knew, but this was a happy house once and it can be again.”
Footsteps sounded on the wooden floor below and the listeners heard each footfall as they started to ascend the stairs. They both stood as the sound drew closer.
He meant to frighten you to death,” Millicent said. “He tortured me in that way for decades. This time his plan will not work.”
Mike nodded and offered her his arm. She smiled and linked one small arm in his as they turned towards the door.
Outside in the hallway, Jeffrey did a little dance. His excitement had reached a fever pitch and he was sure he would wet himself. There wasn’t a sound from inside the room and he imagined Mike’s terror as he waited for what was to come next. Jeffrey rattled the doorknob, before slowly starting to turn it. This was going to be the best fun ever; he could feel it in his bones.
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.
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.
gemmamawdsley 