sleeplessness

Cora shivered, despite the warmth of the small electric fire in Marie’s flat. She heard the clatter of cups being set out, and wanted to scream, and ask Marie to hurry up, but it would have been impolite. The woman seemed to come from another time and was quite prissy. She was forced to leave the children with an old friend. Promising to be just an hour, after garbling off some weak story about a sick relative, she looked at her watch and then towards the kitchen.

“Well, here we are.”

Marie appeared with a tray baring cups, saucers and matching milk and sugar bowl. She took her time spreading out coasters and napkins, until Cora felt she would scream. The warm stream of amber from the pot’s sprout made her stomach somersault. This pregnancy made her turn against things she had once enjoyed, tea being one of them, but she took the proffered cup and sipped.

“Do you take milk or sugar?”

“No, thank you. This is fine,” she was afraid, if she reached for either the woman would notice her trembling hand.

No one could fail to notice the dark ringed eyes or the pallor of her skin.

Are you looking after yourself?” Marie asked, and was sorry for asking, as she watched Cora’s eyes fill up.

“I’ll get the papers you wanted.”

Cora heard the opening of a drawer but did not look up. Instead, she hung her head, mortified at her loss of control. An envelope was placed in her lap and a soft hand covered hers and held tight.

“I want you to know you’re no longer alone.”

With this, Cora started to sob. Tears ran unchecked, and she tasted their saltiness on her lips.

“There, there, child,” Marie stroked her hair. “Tell me all about it, and let’s see if I can help.”

Between sobs Cora managed to tell her about the ghost, about the things happening all around her and how Liam wanted her to get rid of the baby. She told her about the workman, and his story of how Ms. James was sent away.

“My parents are old, and their health is failing,” she explained. “Anyway, they’d only say I’d made my bed and must lie in it. They never liked Liam; you see.”

“And with good reason,” Marie sighed. “I’m looking for a new job. I’ve taken all I can from that man.”

“You’re lucky. My marriage has become a life sentence for me, and I cannot bear to think of what it is doing to the girls. If I do not find a way out soon, I will go mad. He’s already accusing me of that, being mad, I mean.”

“Come now,” Marie took the envelope from her. “Let us try and track down this Ms. James. The sooner we speak to her, the sooner we know what we’re dealing with.”

“We?” Cora looked up.

“As I said, my dear, you’re no longer alone.”

Marie spread the documents along the coffee table and sorted them into order. There were several medical forms, signed by prominent doctors on the health of Miss. Emily James. All attested, that while she was physically sound, psychologically she was unable to care for herself. From the date on the forms, they saw Ms. James was just over seventy and was committed to Hillcrest Rest Home, a facility just minutes away from Marie’s flat. Cora saw, to her horror, it was Liam’s signature on the committal form.

“I hope she’s still alive,” Cora said. “It’s over,” she counted on her fingers, “Six months since she went in there.”

“I’ll make an excuse. Say I have a dental appointment and we’ll go there tomorrow afternoon.”

“Thank you, Marie. I feel much better knowing you’ll be with me, but I don’t want to cause you any trouble.”

“It’s no trouble. In a way, I feel I owe it to Ms James. I kept quiet once and an innocent man suffered. I won’t make the same mistake again.”

The headlights of Cora’s car swept up the drive but did little to dispel the darkness. The trees on either side reached across forming a dark tunnel. She put her foot down on the accelerator, wanting to be out of their shadow, and feeling as though she was driving into the mouth of Hell. In this case, she was right. Liam’s car was parked at the front door. The curtains in his study were not drawn, but the light was on. The red lampshade and the terracotta coloured walls made it seem like the room was bathed in blood.

She reached into the back seat and tried to rouse the sleeping children. At any other time, she would have lifted them inside, but not in her condition. They fussed and grumbled, but she finally managed to get them to wake.

The front door groaned open, despite Cora’s efforts to make as little noise as possible. Warning the children to be quiet, she swept them across the hall and up the stairs. They were on the first flight, just beneath the stained-glass window, when they looked up to find Liam standing on the top step; a hammer in his hand.

“Where were you at this hour?”

For a moment none of them spoke. Even Shelly, who would usually run to her father, sensed something was wrong.

“Well, I’m waiting.”

“I had a tummy ache,” Laura said. “And Mam took me to the doctor.”

“You seem well enough now.”

“It was nothing,” Cora ushered the girls past him. “Just trapped wind. I was afraid it might be appendicitis.”

“Wasting money again,” he grabbed her arm. “I want a word with you, when you’re finished putting them to bed.”

“I’ll be down as soon as I can.”

“See that you are. I’ll be in my study.”

Laura and Shelly got undressed and into their nightgowns in silence. Though they each wondered why their Mam did not tell them to brush their teeth, neither asked why. Cora took her time, switching on lights and closing curtains, until she could no longer delay.

“Sleep well, my angel,” she tucked the covers under Shelly chin.

“Night, Mam,” the child snuggled down and was instantly asleep.

“Now, you, madam,” she smiled down at Laura and tried to ignore her dark, troubled eyes.

“You have to be brave, Mam, like the picture,” she pointed towards the gallery. “Pretend you’re her and Dad is the monster.”

“I’ll try,” Cora promised.

She picked up the discarded clothes and draped them across her arms. The gallery was lit in the blues and reds from the window, and she moved between the shadows, praying for strength. The clothes gave her a few minutes respite, as she walked to the kitchen and dumped them into the laundry basket. The door leading to the cottage was closed with stout beam, but just for a moment as she glanced behind her, she could have sworn a young woman stood framed in the doorway; a young woman like the one in the window.

Liam sat with his back to her, his feet resting on a stool. His shoes and socks were scattered about the room. The warm, sweet smell of the cognac he drank reached her before she saw the glass.

“Have you seen sense yet?”

“You mean about the baby?”

“You know bloody well what I mean.”

“Liam, please,” she pushed the study door closed. “You’ll wake the children.”

“Fuck the children and fuck you,” he threw the glass across the room.

The heavy crystal tumbler glanced across the side of her face and she gasped as it sliced open her skin. For a moment he watched the trickle of blood running from the wound. Though she felt the warmth move down her face, she never moved to wipe it away.

“I’ll tell you one last time,” Liam spoke through gritted teeth. “Get rid of that thing or by God, I’ll do it myself.”

“Touch me and I’ll kill you.”

“Oh, I’m really frightened,” he smiled, but there was no look of merriment.

The blood on her face and neck glowed against the whiteness of her skin. Her eyes were wild in anger.

“For God’s sake, clean yourself up,” he turned away, disgusted.

Cora walked to a table and pulled wades of tissue from a box. Her face stung, when she wiped at the cut and her collar and the front of her sweater felt wet. She smelt the sweet, coppery blood.

Annie stood outside the study door her hand clasped on the handle. The scent of the woman’s blood seemed to penetrate through the wood. This one, this man, was like all those who had gone before him, a destroyer of life. She felt the anger well within her and knew if she allowed it to overwhelm her, then she would return to the shrunken, burnt corpse she really was. All around her the spirits whispered, lulling her, begging her to be still, to wait. But she wanted to kill him, to slowly tear him apart. To feel his blood upon her hands and hear his last gasp. She wanted him to suffer the way she had.

“Outside, hidden by the trees, The Dark One smiled and willed her on. He did not dare enter the house. The woman with her symbols and images of his enemy, made him unwelcome.

“He must die,” he whispered. “Finish him and you will have your family back. Go on, Annie. It will be a mercy and you will save the child.”

Annie heard his words and the rage roared. She brushed aside the entreaties of the spirits. The Dark One was right. She would save the child and be restored to her family. It was her faith and if she should be damned then, at least her family would be saved. She drew back from the door and made ready to merge through the wood, when…

“I told her to be brave like you.”

The child’s voice sounded from behind her. Annie froze, not daring to move until her features returned to normal.

“It is you, isn’t it; in the window?”

Annie turned to find a little girl, the one called Laura, standing on the stairs. Silhouetted as she was by the moonlight and with her hair flowing across her shoulders, she looked like Dora.

“Go back to bed, child,” Annie whispered.

“I knew it was you,” Laura tip toed down the last few steps and came towards her.

The sound of her mother’s anguished sobbing echoed from inside the room, and Laura’s eyes darted from Annie to the door, unsure of what to do.

“This is no place for you,” Annie put her arm around the child’s shoulders and led her back up the stairs.

“Is my Mam going to be all right?”

“She will be fine. Come along now. It is late.”

“I knew it was you, in the window, I mean,” Laura said, as Annie tucked her into bed.

“Perhaps, a long time ago,” her heart ached at the familiar scent of the child.

It was the first real thing she smelt since she had awoken. Until now everything smelt of the earth. The raw, blood-sweet scent of soil seemed to surround her.

“Did the monster kill you?”

She was taken aback by the question, and had it come from her sisters she would have lied and pretended it was not so. But this child had the sight and she knew nothing good would come from lying to her.

“Yes, I tried hard to fight him, but in the end he won.”

“So why are you here? You can’t really be dead, if I can see you?”

“I am dead to the light. I come from a twilight place where I wander by day but am awake and I suppose, in a way, alive by night.”

“It’s all very strange.”

“Yes,” Annie smiled. “Very strange.”

Laura snuggled down under the covers.

“Will you stay with me until I’m asleep? I get frightened when my Mam and Dad argue.”

“Yes, I will watch over you and keep you safe. I promise.”

Annie sat there, in the darkness and listened to the even breathing of the child. The memory of her sisters and their loss became a physical pain within her, and she clutched at her heart. With her sensitive hearing she picked out every word of the conversation from below.

“I’m telling you for the last time,” Liam warned. “Get rid of the baby.”

Cora still held the tissue to her face. He turned his chair towards her and put his feet up on a footstool, his eyes fixed cruelly on his wife. Her eyes travelled down toward the soles of his feet. There against the white of his skin, a black cross was tattooed on each foot.

“My God,” she whispered.

“I think they look quite good. Had them done on a night out with the lads,” he got up to fix another drink.

He filled his glass and stood rocking back and forth on his heels.

“Do you know what I am doing?”

“What, I don’t understand.”

“Every time I move like this, with every step I take, I’m walking on the symbol of your Christ.”

Bile rushed into her throat, and she had to swallow hard. He retraced his steps and her stomach churned at each footfall. Finally, she could bear it no longer and she vomited splattering the carpets and his toes.

“For fuck sake,” he tried to sidestep away. “That’s it. I’m out of here,” he picked up his socks and shoes.

The muscles in Cora’s stomach ached and her throat burned. She wiped away any remaining residue from her mouth and brushed the damp hair from her forehead. Liam meanwhile was standing in the shower, hosing down his feet. She heard water gurgling through the pipes and traced his footsteps, as he raged around overhead. Soon he came thundering down the stairs and strode into the room, car keys in one hand, and an overnight bag in the other.

“I’m going now, but I’ll be back in the morning. If you have not come to your senses by then, I swear, I’ll beat it out of you.”

The door slammed and outside the wheels of the car crunched on the gravel. The sound faded and the silence came flooding back to envelop her. She was sobbing, as she fetched cloths and a basin of water to clean up the mess. He would try to beat the child out of her, but he would not find her an easy victim. She thought of the kitchen and its array of shiny, steel knives. Let him try to hurt her child. She would bury one of his precious knives in his chest; reef it through his black heart. The carpet was now free of vomit, but still she scrubbed on. Unaware of the threads scraping and cutting her knuckles or her tears mingling with the dirty water.

Liam guided the car along the driveway towards the main gate. His fingers griped the wheel so tight the knuckles showed white. He meant every word he said. He would be back in the morning and one way or another; he would get rid of that thing she was carrying.

Annie pushed aside the curtains in the children’s room and watched him leave. Her throat ached from tears and the sound of the woman’s sobs became a lament for the loss of the innocent. When he returned she would be waiting. No matter what hour, she would return from her twilight world and tear him to pieces.

For the first time Cora did not think of the presence of the workmen as an intrusion. It felt safe having so many men about the place once the children were dropped of at school. They were over their fright. Shelly seemed to have forgotten it altogether. Laura was quiet, but this was not unusual, and she had leaned over from the back seat of the car and whispered. “Don’t worry, Mam. Nothing in the house will hurt you. I promise.”

“I know, darling,” Cora tried to smile, and she shook her head in wonder, as she watched her daughter’s retreating figure. Laura was at times, so much wiser than she was.

Work began on the kitchen. The huge dresser was wrenched from its place in the wall. It took six men to shift it, and she listened to their muffled shouts and curses, as the thing refused to come free. There were loud thuds and splintering of wood, as they broke the shelves apart. She liked the dresser and the blue china on its shelves, but Liam declared it too old fashioned for the ultra modern monstrosity he envisioned in its place. Still, she managed to salvage the china, and it was stored away in the attic and safe from Liam. She was busy ironing when she heard her name being called. John, the foreman, came into the room.

“Missus, you have to come and see what we found.”

Cora followed him back into the kitchen to find the rest of his men struggling to open a door hidden by the dresser.

“It must be a cellar of some kind,” John said.

The door gave way, the lock snapping with the force of the crowbar they used. Dust from centuries past, flew around the kitchen. The men waved their arms around, cursing and running to open windows. Only Cora remained unmoved, staring into the dark tunnel beyond the door. John, spluttering and fanning his face, shone a torch into the gloom.

“Aye, an old wine cellar or storeroom. There’s a stair leading down, but we’ll let the dust settle before we go down.”

Cora nodded and turned to go back to her ironing.

It was easy to tell when lunch time approached. The trucks started up again and roared away, packed to capacity with men eager for a pint. They would be gone for two hours. Liam stressed they were never to take more than an hour, but they were a law unto themselves, and she knew any protest on her part could lead to a downing of tools. Anyway, she smiled, what harm did it do? She liked these men with their simple lives and the way they came back bright eyed and laughing from the pub. Their language reduced her to tears of laughter on many occasions, and they knew she was not a snitch and unlikely to tell on them. Her husband, that bastard, as the men referred to him, was another thing altogether. A beggar on horseback, they sneered behind his back, and there was no mistaking the dark looks they gave him.

She smiled, as she sorted the clothes in the airing cupboard. The telephone rang and she ran down the stairs to answer. The number of Liam’s office showed on the answering system, and she drew her hand back in alarm. Finally, it rang off, and she heard the whirr as it recorded his message. The red light blinked, and she reached out and hit the play button, drawing her hand quickly back as though it would bite.

“I hope you’ve thought long and hard about out conversation of last night. When you are ready to do as you are told ring the office; they’ll arrange flights and accommodation for you.”

That was all he said, one chilling command to kill her child.

“Bastard,” Cora muttered, unaware someone else heard every word.

She went into the kitchen to make a hot drink, to thaw the ice that formed inside her. It was then she remembered the cellar door. John left his torch on one of the worktops. The beam was powerful, when she flicked the switch; it lit the wooden staircase to the bottom. She placed her foot on the first step and pressed down hard. It seemed solid, so she tried the next step. There was a crude banister on one side, so she held onto this. Soon she was at the bottom of the steps, and she swung the light around the room. There were candles set in holders around the walls and she ran back upstairs to fetch a lighter. On her return, she placed the torch on a table and lit each one. The room glowed to life, and she saw she was in an old cottage. The door and windows were bricked up, but there was no mistaking what it was. A large open fire took up most of one wall and it was set for lighting. The kindling turned to dust when she touched it. She walked around the room, stopping now and then to admire the carving on the handles of the chairs. A small dresser held bowls and cups, and she opened the doors on the press beneath it and gasped at the assortment of jars and bottles. Each one was carefully labelled with the name of the herbs inside, although the contents were reduced to powder or slime in their long wait.

There was another door in the wall, and she walked towards it. The handle groaned, but it opened easily enough. The odour of neglect was overpowering, and there was something else. Cora sniffed the air. Flowers, it smelt as though flowers were blooming somewhere in the room. There were more candles on a small cabinet, and she lit these. It was a bedroom. The bed made as though waiting for its owners return. Two dresses lay spread across the patchwork quilt, and she picked each one up and studied it. The first was made for a small child, the second for an older one or a young woman. Beside each one was a pair of beautifully embroidered slippers, yellow now from age, but nonetheless beautiful. What was this strange place, she wondered? It was like some enchanted cottage, suspended in time. She was not aware of the figure standing beside her, wringing its hands.

Annie had no intention of frightening the sad woman who roamed around her old home. It was the sight of Dora’s dress and the slippers. She knew Rose made them, and it rendered her heart allowing a sob to escape.

Cora spun around, her hand to her breast, eyes wide in terror. Annie drew back towards the stairs.

“Oh, God,” Cora asked. “What is it?”

“I am sorry.”

She tried to see where the voice was coming from. The candles made the room as bright as day, but there was nothing visible. Yet the words made something within her stir, and she managed to ask.

“Who are you? What are you?”

Annie stood at the end of the stair, wiping away her tears with her long hair.

“I am lost,” she cried, before drifting up the stairs and out of the house.

Cora tried not to scream, as the voice faded away. She managed to stumble up the stairs and stagger to the kitchen table. Realising she still held one of the slippers, she shuddered and threw it away. Her stomach lurched, more from terror than nausea, as icy fingers ran down her back. The door to the hall was open, but she was too afraid to walk through it. The workmen would be back soon. Once she heard their chatter the terror would abate.

The house groaned and sighed all around her. The rushing of water through the overhead pipes became a torrent. She heard the floorboards expanding and settling. Small scratching of mice behind the walls, made her sob out loud, as she imagined nameless things lurking there trying to pick their way through.

The thundering of the trucks on the gravel outside did not bring with them the respite she hoped for. The loud voices of the workmen set her fragile nerves even more on edge, and she clawed at the table for support as she waited for them to appear.

“What the fuck happened to that?”

She held her breath and listened to the grumbling from the hall.

“Missus,” The foreman came through the door, mouth agape and pointing behind him, but he stopped when he saw her.

“Are you alright, Missus?”

“I’m not well,” she managed to say.

“Let me help you.”

She felt his arm go around her waist as he lifted her to her feet, but she slumped and almost fainted, so he was forced to pick her up.

“Run on ahead and open the bedroom door,” he called to one of the workers.

Cora felt the cool air from the hall door as he swept past it. The other men stood watching as he carried her up the stairs. She thought their looks of dismay were for her condition, until she noticed the wall. The expensive paper Liam had chosen was reefed. Four lines, like nails marks, but scorched on either side, ran the length of the hallway. She fainted then, and was unaware of anything, until a glass was held to her lips and she gagged on the brandy.

She was lying on her bed and covered by the quilt. John, the foreman, was trying to get her to drink, but she pushed his hand away.

“I’m pregnant.”

“Come on now,” he pushed the glass towards her. “Something gave you a bad fright. A small drop won’t hurt the baby.”

“No, really. I’m all right.”

He put the glass on the bedside table.

“Would you like me to ring your husband?”

“No, really, I just felt faint. I’ll be fine in a moment.”

He nodded and looked around the room, in no hurry to leave. Finally, he asked.

“You saw the cottage?”

“Yes.”

“What do you make of it?”

“I don’t know. Have you ever seen anything like it before?”

“No, but I heard stories.”

“What kind of stories?”

“Ah, it’s mostly old drunken ramblings.”

“You mean, in the pub?”

“Yes, there’s not one who doesn’t have some kind of tale to tell about this place.”

“Tell me,” she begged, and motioned for him to sit on the bed.

“I’m not sure your husband would welcome me telling you of such things; not in your condition.”

“Please, I have to know.”

“Well,” he sighed, running a hand through his greying hair. “It’s like this. They say the old woman who lived here was guarding something. That she was, what was it they called her?” He rubbed his forehead, trying to remember. “A sentinel, that’s it, and now she’s gone there’s no one to keep it in check; whatever it is.”

“Whatever scraped the wall,” she whispered. “And whatever it was I heard it crying.”

“I can vouch for the wall,” he got up. “And I hope to God I see nothing else while I’m here.”

Cora pulled the quilt closer as she thought of the tombstone, the two dresses and the ages of the girls. She did not realise he had stopped and was watching her from the open door.

“They say she should never have been made to leave this place; that your husband sent away so he could get his hands on the house.”

“Then she’s still alive.”

“Aye, so they say, and if I were you, I’d find her.”

Marie Walters’ sighed as she picked up the phone. It rang relentlessly all morning and she felt a dull ache at the back of her neck; a sure sign one of her headaches was starting up.

“O Brien and Costello,” she spoke automatically into the receiver and was startled by the urgent voice on the other end of the line.

“Marie, its Cora O Brien. Do not say anything. If my husband is in the office just hang up and ring me later.”

Marie looked towards the open door of Liam’s office.

“Yes, I understand. Thank you for calling,” she said, replacing the receiver and making pretence of writing in the appointments book.

She tried to get back to work, but her mind kept straying to the urgency in Cora’s voice, and she wondered what she could possibly want from her. They were not on friendly terms, far from it. The only time she had met Cora was at one of Gerald’s parties. A sweet, shy woman, who seemed best left to herself. Still, living with Liam was bound to have a bad effect on anyone. She fluffed at her newly coloured, short hair and smiled. For the first time in years she had a date. The dapper gentleman from the pub sought her out. At first, she was outraged by his boldness, but she soon realised he meant no disrespect, and she had eventually agreed to walk out with him. He was, after all, a man with the same old-fashioned values as she was brought up to believe in. They would get along quite nicely.

“When you’re finished preening.”

She looked up at her employer and tried to keep her voice from shaking.

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

“That’s obvious,” he glared at her with contempt. “Is your hearing going along with everything else?”

“What can I do for you?” She asked, refusing to let him upset her.

“I’m going out. You should be able to manage without me.”

“Of course.”

Once he was gone, Marie turned to Rachael.

“You said something about needing to do some shopping?”

“Yes, I could do with an hour to get some things I need.”

“Then go now, while he’s away.”

Are you sure?” Rachael asked, already reaching for her bag and coat.

“He’ll be gone for hours,” Marie assured her.

“But what if I should run into him?”

“Tell him I sent you out for some stationery.”

“Thanks, you’re a doll.”

Once Rachael left, Marie picked up the receiver and dialled.

Cora, who was waiting in the study, answered it at once.

“Oh, Marie, thank you for calling back. I’m sorry for sounding so hush hush about this, but I need your help.”

“If there’s anything I can do to help I will,” Marie assured her.

“You’re very kind and I really do…” Cora’s voice became choked with tears, and it took her a moment to steady herself. “I’m sorry; it’s been a trying day.”

“Take your time, dear,” Marie said, feeling sorry for the young woman, who was obviously in distress.

“You know we moved into an old manor house?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Well, I was wondering if you could tell me who lived here before us?”

There was silence at the other end of the line.

“Marie, are you still there?”

“Yes, dear, just give me a moment,” Marie answered. Her hand was trembling so much she found it hard to hold the receiver. She remembered the last owner all right. The little old lady Liam had committed to a home, after taking over as her solicitor and making her sign power of attorney to him.

“Marie?” the hesitant question made her take control.

“I’m sorry, my dear. I was trying to recall who had lived in your house. It was an old lady. A Miss. James I think her name was.”

“Do you know what happened to her?”

“She was put in a home.”

“Put in a home, was she insane or something?”

“No, dear, just old.”

“So, who put her there, a relative?”

“No, not a relative.”

“Then who?”

“I’m afraid I can’t answer that.”

There was silence on both ends of the phone for a moment.

“Marie listen,” Cora pleaded. “Strange things are happening here, and I’m frightened.”

“I’m sure if you ask in the village someone will know the house’s history.”

“No,” Cora almost screamed. “I need to speak to the last owner.”

“I’m sorry, my dear, but I can’t help you,” Marie went to replace the receiver, when the sobbing stopped her. She listened, not knowing what to say.

“I’m pregnant and he wants me to kill my baby.”

“Oh, no,” Marie gasped.

“Sometimes I feel as though I’m going mad, and now this thing with the house,” Cora’s voiced trailed off into muted sobs.

Marie thought about Gerald and his fatherless children. Liam O Brien cared nothing for them and even less for his own.

“He keeps papers in the safe in his office,” she said. “I have the key. I’ll try and make copies for you, but you’ll have to meet me.”

“Yes, anything.”

“He’s out now and I’m alone, but it’s too risky, as I’m not sure when he will be back. Give me a few hours and I’ll call you back.”

“Thank you, Marie. You don’t know how much this means to me.”

Or what it means to me, Marie thought after she hung up. She had seen the many countless acts of cruelty and corruption instigated by her boss. Now it was time to turn the tables on him. There was the risk of losing her job and in the past, it would have terrified her, but not now. She thought of her date that evening and knew her life was changing for the better.

“I’m back,” Rachael breezed in, loaded down with shopping bags. “Did I miss anything?”

“No, nothing,” Marie said, and watched as the girl hid the bags beneath her desk.

She waited, as Rachael recounted her purchases and nodded and smiled, in what she hoped was the right places, as she heard none of the girl’s words. Her mind was too caught up in what she was about to do.

“Rachael,” she finally asked. “Will you do something for me?”

“Sure,” the girl shrugged, expecting to be asked to make tea.

“I have to get something from the safe in O Brien’s office and I will need to make copies.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“The thing is. I need you to act as lookout.”

“Sounds serious,” she stuffed a piece of gum in her mouth and waited for an answer.

“It is. It is something I am doing for a friend. Call it righting a wrong.”

“Okay, what do you want me to do?”

“Watch the street. If you see him coming call me.”

Rachael swung round in her chair and propelled herself towards the window. The sound of the chair’s castors on the bare floor sounded like a scream in the quiet of the office, and Marie felt the familiar throb in the back of her neck. Rachael eased the window open and leaned out to get a better look.

“Go on,” she waved at Marie.

The interior of his office seemed darker than usual, and the smell of his cologne hung in the air. Marie eased open the top drawer of his desk and located the bundle of keys inside. She flipped through each one on the ring until she found the one, she needed. The safe was behind an old panel in the wall and she pulled this open. Her hands shook, as she turned the key and the thunk of the lock opening made her jump. There were bundles of letters and documents inside, and she laid these on his desk and started to rifle through them. She was sweating and she wiped her hands on her skirt, afraid she would leave tell-tale finger marks.

“He’s driving up the street,” Rachael called, just as the envelope Marie needed came into view.

She gathered the rest of the papers together and replaced them carefully in the safe and was sitting at her desk writing, when he came into the office. He ignored them and slammed his door shut behind him.

“That was close,” Rachael whispered.

Marie nodded, too winded to speak. It was not until Rachael and Liam left for the day that she picked up the phone and dialled.

“I have the papers you need. Do you know where I live?”

“No,” Cora said.

“Very well,” Marie listed off her address. “I can’t meet you until tomorrow night. I have an engagement tonight.”

That is a pity, but I’ll have to wait.”

“I’m afraid so, my dear.”

Cora stayed looking at the receiver long after Marie had hung up. She could hear the children squabbling upstairs and they would soon be demanding their dinner. Liam would not be home; she was sure of this. If she had money they could go to a hotel, but Liam kept her short and paid for most things. She could not risk asking anyone for help, as he would use this to his advantage in proving her mentally unsound. So, she would be forced to spend another night alone with the children, and praying for her sanity.

Her body continued to burn throughout the day. The sight of her smouldering corpse met Meg and Pat when they rode into the village that evening, and it was one, they would never forget. Annie’s blackened figure hung amid the embers of the fire. The spear held it in place.

The children were asleep in the back of the cart and spared the terrible sight, but Meg and Pat were inconsolable. A shadowy figure moved from the shelter of the mill and stumbled towards them.

“I threw the spear,” the young guard sobbed.

“You…” Pat cried, catching him by the throat.

“I had to; she was cursed to feel each flame.”

Pat looked at him uncomprehending, and it was only when Meg pulled at his arm, he released the boy.

“Let him be, Pat. He put her out of her agony.”

The boy coughed, rubbing at his bruised throat.

“I worked all day putting the fire out.”

“Where is he,” Pat asked. “This man, Tanas?”

“He disappeared before she died.”

“And the O Brien’s and the rest of the village?”

“They fled in terror.”

“They will have more to fear than the Devil when I find them.”

The sound of Meg retching made them run to her aid. She could no longer bear the sight of the burnt corpse, or the smell of cooked meat pervading the air.

“Take us home,” she beseeched Pat. “Take us to Annie’s cottage.”

“She will need a Christian burial.”

“You can come back when the cart’s unloaded and bring her home. The embers are still too hot and there is no hurry now. Just take us away.”

She had to be lifted onto the cart. The very life seemed to have drained from her, and she sat in a stupor for the rest of their journey.

The cottage looked dark and deserted. A melancholic breeze sighed among the trees. Even the little pool beside the cottage was covered with green slime. Nature itself mourned the passing of one so good.

The sleeping children were carried inside and put to bed. Meg took some wood from the stack beside the hearth and lit a fire. Even its comforting light did nothing to dispel the gloom. Pat brought water from the well, filled the kettle and swung the arm over the fire.

“I will make you some tea.”

Meg slumped into a chair and watched the leaping flames. Pat realised, for the first time, how old and frail she really was. They sat in silence until steam hissed from the spout, and the water threatened to boil over.

“My God, my God, why hath thou forsaken me?”

The hair on Pat’s neck rose at her whispered question, and he gulped back the tears. This was his fault; he knew something was brewing.

“You are not to blame.”

Her words startled him.

“Sit down,” she pointed to the chair opposite hers.

Pat handed her the tea and sat down. He was glad of the solidness of the wood beneath him. It was the only thing that seemed real. He held the cup with both hands to bring it to his lips, and he noticed how Meg’s hand trembled also.

“This is not a time for blame,” her eyes seemed to bore into him. “Nor a time for revenge.”

“I do not understand. What happened?”

“Annie, Lord rest her soul,” Meg continued, then stopped suddenly as the sound of the familiar name pierced her heart. She allowed the cup to slide from her grasp and it shattered on the stone floor.

Pat could do nothing to help. The tears that were threatening spilled over, and he was forced to hold a hand over his mouth, least the sound of his anguish wake the children.

“Come now,” Meg managed to rouse herself. “There is much to be done and plenty of time for grieving in the months ahead.”

Pat wiped the tears from his face.

“Take your cart to the store and unload it, then bring Annie and Dora home.”

“Dora?”

“Dora is dead. I felt her spark die before Annie’s.”

She rose and motioned him to do the same. He was afraid to leave her alone and told her so, but she knew the danger was past. The Dark One was vanquished. There was nothing left for him there.

The young guard was keeping watch over Annie’s body, and it was with his help, Pat managed to take her down. She felt warm to touch, and he moaned when he realised the pieces of ash falling from her was skin. They placed her in a blanket and loaded her onto the cart. Still the village lay in silence. No dogs barked; no lights showed in any of the windows.

“There was a child, a little girl…”

“They buried her outside the chapel wall,” the guard told him. “I can show you where.”

Pat led the horse along the village street. The sound of its hoofs shattered the quiet. Clip—clop, they rang through the silent night.

It was easy to find the small, unmarked grave. Burial outside the chapel walls was a fate reserved only for suicides, witches, and stillborn babies. The guard went inside and returned with two spades, the property of the gravediggers. Dora was not buried very deep, and the earth was dry and easy to dig. She was wrapped only in a blanket. Pat threw this aside and cried out when he saw the condition of her body. The stench made him draw back and he gagged at the raw, rotten smell of her decay. When he lifted her from the dank earth, her hair that was hiding her face, fell back, the moon lighted upon her, and he gasped at the beauty and serenity of her features. Despite the marks on her body, death left no sign of suffering.

The young guard, who introduced himself as Tom O Shea, offered to make the coffins and help with the grave digging. Pat accepted with a nod, and Tom climbed up onto the seat beside him. Meg came out to meet the cart. Pat stopped her from pulling back the blankets shrouding Annie and Dora.

“It is best to remember them as they were.”

They spent the rest of the night in the woodshed fashioning makeshift coffins from pieces of timber.

At dawn they buried Annie and Dora side by side, in the farthest corner of the property. A light rain fell as Pat and Tom filled the hole. A wind blew up, and it seemed as though the trees were bowing over the grave; paying homage to one who was a part of the forest.

“Should they be in consecrated ground?” Pat looked at the mound.

“Anywhere she lies is blessed,” Meg wiped her tears and turned to go. “The children will be awake soon and there is a lot of explaining to do.”

It was a solemn procession that walked back to the cottage that morning.

Meg, Pat, and the children stayed on at Annie’s cottage. More rooms were added to make way for the growing children. Pat’s business prospered, though it was whispered he was never the same after Annie died. Meg did her best at being mother to Rose, Paul, and Lily, but the loss of her loved ones took their toll. She spent hours beside the grave each day talking and whispering about old times. Flowers grew in abundance and covered the mound watered by Meg and Pat’s tears.

Slowly the seasons passed, and it was soon winter again. The sky was dark with the promise of snow when Meg set off to collect kindling from within the forest. There was no need for her to do this, as Pat had a woman come in and help with the housework, but it kept her busy and her mind from tormented thoughts. It was reported Mary O Brien was dying. Some said it was from a broken heart, but Meg knew it was from vexation.

The holly bushes were heavy with berries, a sure sign of a hard winter. Lord, I am tired Meg thought, as she stooped to pick up a stick. A cold wind stirred the trees above her, and she gathered her shawl tighter and was about to turn for home, when she heard it, a long, mournful cry that froze her blood. Meg listened as its volume increases and tore at her heart.

She allowed the sticks to fall, as she followed the sound. It took her way beyond the forest and into the village. Every window and door were locked, as the villagers tried to escape the cry. Her search took her to the O Brien’s house, where Hugh’s ashen face appeared at the window. Annie stood in the garden; Annie as beautiful as she had once been. The wind whipped her hair around her and carried her cries with it. Those who heard it would describe it as a keening, a ghostly lament for the dead.

Annie, Annie child,” Meg leant on the gatepost, her eyes blinded by tears.

“Do not come near me, Meg,” Annie sobbed, her cries rising and falling. “I am cursed to walk the earth until the end of his line.”

“I will find a way to help you, child,” Meg walked towards her. “Let me take you in my arms.”

“You cannot, Meg. You will die. I am death to all who touch me.” Annie floated towards the house and sat upon the windowsill.

Her crying continued unabated until dawn. Meg sat on the steps to the house praying and never taking her eyes from Annie’s face. The sounds she made were frightening, and Meg prayed, asking God for some relief for the child. Snow began to fall at first light. Soft flakes at first, but it soon came faster swirling about the village, covering everything.

“I have to go,” Annie called to Meg. “She is dead.”

“Where will you go?”

Annie’s eyes opened wide in terror. “I belong to the night. I lie shrouded in darkness. Help me, Meg.”

Sheets of snow blinded Meg, as she fought her way towards where Annie sat. But she was gone, fading into the air. The last thing Meg heard was her crying. “It is not fair; I am so frightened. Help me, Meg.”

Meg watched the path through which she expected Annie to make her way home, until it became too dark to see. The evening grew colder and the breeze carrying the perfume of the woods, smelt rancid.

“Sweet Jesus, protect us,” she murmured, ushering the children inside.

They were restless all day, barely touching the food she prepared for them. She had not been able to eat a bite either. The worry for Annie’s safety weighed heavy on her. It was an even worse struggle to get them to go to bed and they did so, only after she promised to wake them as soon as Annie came home.

But Annie was not coming home, not tonight. Meg lowered herself into a chair beside the fire. She placed a lighted candle in the two small windows fronting the cottage. Small beacons to light the way for one she loved more than her life. She would rest awhile here in the quiet and surrounded by all the things familiar to her. Looking around the kitchen, she smiled at the jumble she collected over the years. Wooden shelves groaned under the weight of jars filled with hundreds of dried herbs, powders, and oils. Vervain root acted as a mild stimulant, valerian to ease a troubled mind, plantain, for bites and stings and other more powerful plants to relieve the pains of childbirth. She taught Annie all about these things, and the child knew each plant and root by its feel and smell. Had she been wrong to encourage Annie in the ways of the healer? But the child was born to do so, and surely it would have been sinful to discourage such a gift? I will not cry, I must not, for all will be lost if I weaken. She tried to occupy her mind with other thoughts and glanced at the faded tapestries on the cushions adorning each chair. Meg’s cats and Blackie all huddled together on one of the cushions, a maze of heads, paws, and tails. It was hard to see where one cat began and the other ended. From above the fireplace two bright, searching eyes appeared. The jackdaw took shelter in a nook in the wall and was watching her, bobbing its head from side to side as if asking, what is wrong? The old dog at her feet stirred, sensing her mood, and put his face on her lap. Reaching down, she stroked the animal’s coarse hair and her mind was filled with plans for the coming day. They would set off at first light and make their way towards the town. The going was hard, but the weather was dry and with God’s help they would make it in time. She would find Pat and tell him of Annie’s imprisonment. She knew the child was being kept against her will, for nothing other than death would keep her away from her sisters. Crossing herself, she prayed for Annie and the strength to endure the journey they were all about to make.

The torture started as soon as the sun set. They came for Roma first, tearing her from Annie’s grasp and ignoring her pleas for mercy.

“Watch and learn.” The Dark One sneered.

Stefan kicked against the bars of his cell in vain. They were too solid for even his great strength, his shouts of terror and impotence echoed along the empty corridor, even after the door slammed shut and he could no longer hear his wife’s sobs. He had always been strong in both mind and body, but now he went unmanly with grief. Gripping the bars, he laid his head against them and sobbed. Annie sunk to the floor and listened in terror to his crying. Maybe, The Dark One was just trying to frighten her, and wouldn’t really hurt Roma? No sound came from along the corridor. For a while it was quiet save for Stefan’s anguished sobbing and then she heard it, a desolate cry resounding from far away.

Roma listened to the accusations against her and once again denied them. He bound her hands to a chair, and she struggled against her restraints. A fierce fire burned in the brazier, and the coals were red and angry looking.

“Confess and be free.”

She looked up at him in wonder.

“Yes,” his voice was kind. “Tell us the truth and you can go free. Take your husband, return to your children and be on your way.”

Sweat glistened on her upper lip and trickled into her mouth. She licked at the salty liquid and watched as he strode around the room.

“Well?”

“If I say I am a witch,” she asked. “I can go free?”

“Yes, that is all there is to it,”

She failed to notice his smile of triumph, as it was directed to Hugh O Brien.

It would be going against God to utter such blaspheme, but if it saved their lives.

“I am a witch,” the whisper was indistinct.

“Speak up.”

“I am a witch.”

“Good,” he sat opposite her. “Very good.”

“Can I go now?” God forgive me Roma prayed, but I am only doing what mothers have done throughout the centuries, lying to save my children.

“In a little while, but first I have a question for you. Answer carefully,” he warned. “Your very life depends on it.”

“Your friend, Annie Ryan. It was she who instructed you in the Devil’s ways, was it not?”

“Annie, no! Annie is goodness itself. She would never think of such things.”

“Think again, gypsy,” he snarled, causing her to draw back. “If you value your freedom answer true.”

“But what I say is the truth. Annie is good and kind and I will not betray her.”

“Not even to save your husband, your children?”

“No,” Roma’s heart ached with sorrow, for she now saw the road she had to take. The Dark One could not be allowed to have his way.

“Perhaps this will persuade you?” Walking over to the fire, he withdrew an iron resting among the coals. The head was flat and glowed white from the heat.

“Prepare her,” he motioned to Hugh, who came and stood before her.

She looked up at him, shaking her head and crying.

“No, please no,”

There was no mercy in Hugh’s face as he leaned down, grabbed her blouse in both hands and pulled it apart exposing her breasts. He leered, stroking her smooth skin with the back of his hand, before stepping aside and allowing the Dark One to take his place.

“Do you still say she is innocent?”

The iron was so close she smelt its heat.

“I am afraid. Oh, God help me, but I am so afraid,” coal-black curls tumbled across her face as she bowed her head.

“Pull her head back.”

Hugh, standing behind her chair, grabbed her hair and pinioned her head against the hard wood.

“Last chance,” The Dark One’s face drew close to hers. “Just say the words and you will be free.”

His breath smelt blood-sweet and in that few seconds she noticed, for the first time, his eyes had no colour within the pupils, just a flat blackness. Hugh’s grip loosened somewhat on her hair and she managed to draw even closer to The Dark One, their noses were almost touching when she spat into his face. He drew back, disgusted and wiped the spittle away with his sleeve.

“Very well,” he thrust the iron as though it were a sword. It contacted the skin on her left breast, just above her heart and she screamed in agony. It would be pointless to describe the pain; she could not have found the words. He did not withdraw the iron immediately but held it in place allowing it to burn past the skin and into the tissue beyond. Roma writhed and howled, trying to get away from the pain, praying for death. Even when the iron was withdrawn, the agony continued. A large circular piece of her skin had burned away and was stuck to the head of the iron. Her left breast was now an open wound, the skin around the hole blistering and bubbling causing her to moan and scream. It felt as though she had a fever. The heat raged within her and sweat dripped down her face. Even the small trickles that reached the wound caused her to cry out.

“I will just let the iron reheat.”

He was speaking to Hugh who still held her hair, but she managed to move her head enough to see the fire. The head of the iron was buried deep with the coals and already turning white from the heat.

“Please no,” she whispered. “I cannot take any more.”

He had withdrawn the iron and was advancing on her again.

“No please.”

“Then tell me the truth. Say she is a witch and has instructed you in the ways of the Devil,” he moved the iron closer to her right breast as he spoke. She felt its heat on her skin.

“Yes,” she cried. “Yes, Annie told me to do it.”

“Do what?”

“What do you want me to say, tell me?”

“You will sign a confession that Annie Ryan instructed you in the ways of the Devil. That through her intercession you mated with him and bore his black offspring’s,”

Roma was sobbing from pain, but also from self-disgust. “Then I can go free?”

“Yes, of course. I will give you freedom.”

Hugh loosened one of her restraints. A thick manuscript was dropped into her lap and a pen, its nib dripping ink, handed to her.

“Sign there,” Hugh indicated a space on the bottom of the document.

“I cannot write.”

“Then make your mark. A cross will do.”

Roma’s hand shook as she traced a cross onto the yellow paper.

“Very well,” The manuscript was grabbed from her lap. “Take her back to the cells.”

“But,” she panicked. “I have done what you asked. You promised to set me free.”

“Oh, I will give you a freedom of sort. Take away all your pain,” he laughed. “Now take her away.

Roma was dragged back along the dark corridor. Her blouse open, her breasts hanging loose, but she was beyond shame. They threw her into the cell, and she lay on the floor, trying to burrow into the dirty straw. She heard Stefan’s curses and roars at the men, and she pulled away from Annie, when she tried to lift her.

“Leave me be,” she sobbed. “I betrayed you Annie. I have signed your death warrant.”

“Roma, hush now,” Annie tried to brush back the sweat-soaked hair. “Turn around let me see what they did to you.”

“Do not be kind to me Annie,” Roma’s voice was muffled by the straw. “Please, I cannot bear it.”

“Roma, listen to me,” Annie was crying now. “I know what you did was not out of malice. Let me help you.”

Roma sat and tried to gather the remnants of her blouse around her, but she was not fast enough. Annie gasped, when she saw the wound and the raw, burnt flesh around it. Blood dripped from the tear, caking Roma’s side and there was an aroma of cooked meat. Annie tried not to retch, when she realised the smell was emanating from her friend.

“Do not look,” Roma tried to hide.

“I have already seen. Do not pull away. I can help.”

“No,” Roma brushed at Annie’s outstretched hand. “It hurts too much.”

“I know, but I can ease the pain. Trust me.”

Annie called out to Stefan several times to be quiet. He was out of his mind with worry, and although she could understand his desperation, there was work to be done. Her powers were limited under such a strain, but she would do what she could. Reaching out, she placed the palm of her hand over the wound. Roma screamed and tried to pull away, but Annie whispered to her, the words soothing. Closing her eyes, Roma swayed slightly, and Annie held her upright with one hand, while laying the other on the open wound.

“Lord,” she prayed. “It is a good thing I wish to do with this gift you gave me. I ask you now, you who healed our Saviour, Jesus Christ and staunched his bleeding wounds. Have pity on this woman who suffers in your name.”

The flesh beneath her hand began to cool. Roma gasped as she felt the pain ebb and the fever within her body faded away. Charred and torn tissue started to knit together. The puckered, burnt flesh uncurled and stretched itself across the wound. When Annie removed her hand the only evidence of what Roma had suffered was a round, red mark.

“I cannot believe it,” Roma traced her fingers over the mark. “Annie, how can this be?”

“I do not know,” Annie was amazed by what she had done. “I have always been able to heal, but I cannot explain how or why.”

“Stefan,” Roma wanted him to hear what Annie had done.

Leaning on Annie’s arm, she managed to get on her feet. She was still badly shaken by her ordeal, but now the pain was gone, her thoughts were of her husband. Before she could walk to the bars, before she could reach out a hand and try and touch him…

“Bring the man next.”

The command from the darkness made her draw back in fear.

“Get down,” Annie warned, and Roma crouched in the corner of the cell, pulling her tattered blouse around her. Annie stood in front, shielding her from the group of men who arrived to take Stefan. There were at least ten of them and each held a stout club. They knew he would put up a fight, and Roma and Annie clung together listening to the roars from the next cell. Sobbing, they cringed as blows rained down on him, and they heard the smack of wood against flesh, the dull thud when it hit bone.

“Right, bring him along,” one of the men stood back to allow the others to drag Stefan out.

Annie rose and walked to the bars of her cell. The man who had spoken was sweating, and the club he held was matted with blood. All she saw of Stefan were his heels as he was dragged away, toes scraping along the flagstones.

“Wait,” Annie called to the man.

“What do you want, witch?”

“Tell him,” she indicated along the passageway. “Tell The Dark One I will admit to being a witch. Sign anything, he wants if he lets Stefan go.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The one you call Oliver. Tell him what I said.”

“I take no orders from the likes of you,” with this he struck out at her.

She was too quick, and the blow from the club meant for her fingers, rang against the bars.

“Tell him,” she warned. “Or I will say you are in league with me.”

He drew back as if struck and hurried away into the darkness. The Dark One and Hugh O Brien accompanied him on his return.

“What is it you want?” The Dark One was annoyed.

“I will sign whatever document you want; admit I am a witch if you let Stefan go.”

“That is not what I want from you,” he hissed, moving closer to her.

“I cannot give you what you ask.”

“Cannot or will not?”

“I will not go against God.”

“Why?” Then, noticing Hugh moving closer, he turned. “Go, make sure all is well.”

Hugh and the man moved away.

“Now,” he turned back to Annie. “Tell me why you defend this God of yours, this Saviour. He is willing to let you and yours suffer and die; while I will give you everything you desire.”

“I love him.”

“You love him! Have you taken leave of your senses? How can you love him? He is a monster, an abomination that sees your suffering and does nothing.”

“I feel him all around me,” her face became rapturous. “He whispers to me on the wind. When I am in the woods, I feel his wonder beneath my feet. I can feel the opening of each bud, the birth of every creature no matter how small. It is their life renews the power in me. It flows over me. I can feel it now, even in this dreadful place.”

Roma turned and looked up at Annie. She seemed to be glowing, emitting a warm light. Even The Dark One seemed mesmerised.

“This is why I love him. I can feel his goodness. Can you not try to feel the same?” She reached through the bars and touched his face. The magic within her fingers was like acid on his skin.

“I am sorry. I am so sorry. I did not mean to hurt you.”

“It is not you,” he snarled, holding his hand against his severely burned cheek. “It is him,” he shook his fist towards the ceiling. “He has tormented me since the beginning of time and continues to do so through you and your like. You will pay now, all of you will die.”

“No,” Annie backed away as the fire in his eyes grew stronger

Hugh and the others came running on hearing his cries. Their eyes flew from his burnt face to Annie and back again.

“See what the witch has done to me?”

The looks they gave Annie were filled with fear.

As if noticing Roma for the first time, he turned on her. “Show me your wound, gypsy.”

“No,” Roma huddled deeper into the corner.

“Leave her be,” Annie warned. “She has suffered enough.”

“Do I have to come in there?” He roared.

“No, please,” Roma held up a hand to ward him off.

He knew what happened. Annie healed the wound and having had evidence of her power; he knew she was capable of much more.

Turning to Hugh he asked. “Did she not under pain of torture admit to being a witch?”

“She did.”

“And did I not brand her with a hot iron and tear the skin from her bones?”

“You did indeed.”

“Yet,” he indicated to one of the men to open the cell. “I see no sign of her suffering, no marks. Do you?”

“Come to think of it,” Hugh scratched his head, a stupid look on his face. “I cannot see anything.”

Annie backed away towards Roma and was shielding her with her body. Two of the men approached her, grabbed her arms, and dragged her kicking and screaming to the other side of the cell. Roma was pulled to her feet and offered little resistance, as he moved towards her and pushed aside the remnants of her blouse. Hugh gasped at the red patch on her skin and pointing a trembling finger, stuttered.

“But she was horribly burned. There was a hole and blood.”

“Now you see how powerful this witch is?” The Dark One looked round at the men, who were shaking their heads in disbelief. “While she lives, you will never prosper. She will bring sickness and suffering on the village until she and her servants are wiped out.”

“No,” Annie tried to pull away. “What he says isn’t true. I am a healer. I heal man and beast, and I do so in the name of God.”

“Enough,” he walked outside the cell and waited for his men to join him. Annie and Roma were thrown to the floor by their captors.

“I will be back for you later,” was his parting promise.

“No,” she ran to the bars, but he was already lost in the darkness. “Please,” she whispered. “Oh, please God help us.”

The only reply was the laughter of The Dark One and his mocking whisper.

“He is still not listening.”

Death Cry- chapter eight

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on May 29, 2020

Posted in: banshee, books, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, Fairies, fiction, folklore, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, harbinger of death, Haunted Houses, horror, Ireland's past, Irish folklore, legend, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, sleeplessness, thoughts, twlight, wailing cry, Witchcraft, Witches, wraiths, writers, writing. Tagged: Ghosts, Gothic, harbinger of death, Horror, paranormal, revenge, spirits, wailing cry, Witch-hunt, Witchcraft, witches, wraiths. Leave a comment

Annie pushed her way through the crowds making for the mill. She had not realised so many people would turn up for the trial. There were street hawkers all along the road selling sweet biscuits and fruit. Others had effigies of sharp-nosed witches, riding on brooms, or swinging from a rope. The whole event had a feeling of carnival about it. She was one of the first to arrive at the mill.

The building fell into disuse years before, long before Annie could remember, but it was still used as a meeting place and at rare times, as a jail. The worse crime she could recall was an argument over cattle or land, and no one was held for long. The culprit usually gave in after a few hours in the draughty, barred, basement cell and was sent on their way with a heavy fine. Now, as she picked up her skirts to begin the climb up towards the door, she felt as though she was stepping up to the gallows. There were fourteen steps in all; she counted them as she moved. The stairway was wide and there were people on either side of her; the wood resounded to each footfall, the thuds echoing and vibrating. She stopped at the top of the stairs and stared in amazement. Mary O Brien and Hugh stood on either side of the door as though greeting guests to their home.

“Why, Annie,” Mary smiled. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Why not, everyone else seems to be here?”

“Yes, of course, dear,” Mary agreed. “And where are your sisters?”

“They are safe and well, thank you,” she started to move past, but Mary grabbed her arm.

“It was a big mistake you made in refusing my Hugh.”

Annie glared at her and looked across at Hugh.

“I don’t think so.”

The inside of the mill was set up with all different sized benches. At the top of the room, there was a high desk, a chair, and a large, sturdy table. She wondered who the judge might be. Luke Richards oversaw such things in the past. He was also the local wise man and the leader among the elders. Sadly, he had succumbed to the sickness and would be a great loss to the village. She had not noticed the gallows on her way there and looked up at the dirty, dusty windows lining the room. It was only by listening to the general hubbub around her she learned it was built round the back of the mill. The room was filling, becoming stuffy despite the cold morning air. Many were unable to get seats and stood around the walls or sat on the stairs leading to the upper rooms. Annie prayed for Stefan and Roma, trying to block out the heightening buzz of conversation and the crying and fussing of children. Suddenly, it stopped, and she felt her heart tighten with dread. A loud rumbling was moving towards the hall. Whatever it was clattered and rolled over the cobbles. Everyone held their breaths. It reached the steps outside and the noise stopped as suddenly as it had started. There came a rattling of chains and the muffled curses and shouts of the men, as they hauled, whatever it was, up the steps. The doors were flung open and the thundering began again, louder this time on the wood floor. Annie glanced to her right as it passed her. It was a giant wheel of sorts. Like two cartwheels, one on either side and joined together by stout rungs. It was rolled to the front of the room and chained to the wall. She saw the hooks that were made to house this contraption. The whispering and chatter started up again until Annie wanted to put her hands over her ears to block out the sound.

“Silence.”

She strained in her seat to watch the procession coming from the main door. The Squire led the way and she felt sick when she realised, he was going to be acting as judge. A dark man followed close behind him, she was unable to see his face, then Mary and Hugh O Brien. The Squire took his place on the judge’s bench, the dark man, Mary, and Hugh sat in specially designated chairs to his left.

“Bring in the prisoners,” the disembodied voice again.

There was a wave of movement as everyone in the room leaned forward, wanting to be the first to see the witches. Annie gasped; when she saw them, but the sound mingled with so many others it went unnoticed. Stefan and Roma were dragged in chains to stand before the judge. Stefan’s head was bowed, and he reminded Annie of some great, gentle bear being held in captivity. Only Roma held her head high, scanning the crowds. She caught Annie’s eye and shook her head. Their clothes hung in tatters around them, and she saw the marks of the whip and the blood-streaked patches on their skin. Annie’s throat ached with unshed tears.

The list of charges was being read out; it was as she had expected. Roma was charged with being a witch. Of cavorting with the Devil and siring his children, of selling charms and potions to aid in his work. Stefan was charged with much the same things as his wife.

“Will you say now before this court and these good people that your wife is a witch? That she aids the Devil’s work and has sired his children?” The Squire roared at Stefan.

“My wife’s no witch,” Stefan’s voice was a low growl.

“So be it,” the Squire turned to Roma. “Will you admit before this court and before God that you are a witch?”

“I am not a witch,” she spat. “If I were, I would turn you into a man.”

There was laughter and sniggers from the crowd, but these were soon silenced with a glare from the Squire.

“Proceed,” he turned to the dark man, and for the first time Annie got a good look at him.

He was very handsome and somehow familiar. This must be the famous Mr. Tanas Jane spoke of. He bent down and fumbled in a bag beside him, withdrew a knife or large needle and held it up for everyone to see. The sunlight streaming through the windows lighted on the tip and showed it cruel, sharp point in all its glory. There were more gasps and ooh’s from the crowd, as he walked across the room with the weapon held high.

“This will help us to prove,” he told the crowd. “If these people are really in league with the Devil; a witch will have a mark that’ll does not bleed when it is pricked.”

Nodding to the group of men who held Roma, he waited as they picked her up and placed her on her back on the table. She screamed and struggled against her capturers, but they held her fast. Stefan roared and pulled free, the chains on his arms hitting the men who held him and knocking them to the floor. But, before he could reach the table, the men gathered about the walls set on him, trying to drag him to the ground. They beat at his legs with clubs and though he fought bravely, he was no match for the weapons. Even when he fell to the floor, they continued to beat him. Annie held a hand over her mouth to stop herself from screaming. She watched the faces of the men as they went about their merciless work. Men she had known all her life. Men who had once been kind were somehow been transformed into snarling beasts

“Enough”.

The men stopped and looked up at the voice. Sweat dripped down their faces from the effort and spittle ran from the corners of their mouths. They turned to go back to their place by the wall. Their eyes wild, they were more beasts than men.

“I take it I am safe to continue?” The dark man looked at the fallen Stefan.

“He will give you no more trouble.” Hugh laughed.

“Very well. As I was saying…” he stopped, annoyed by Roma’s sobs and unsure he could be heard above the noise, he slapped her face. The sound seemed to resound within the room, and for a moment there was silence.

“Now, I will start again, and I take it I will have no more interruptions?”

Roma was crying quietly.

“Very well. I shall now look for the witches mark,” he took the hem of Roma’s tattered skirt and pulled it up about her waist. She kicked and struggled, mortified at such a violation. The women in the room gasped and hid their eyes; the men leered at her exposed limbs.

“Do you want me to strike you again?” The dark man roared at Roma.

Annie felt all hope fading as Roma lay still and allowed him to examine her legs. He found what he was looking for, a small mole just below her knee.

“I have found the mark.”

He looked around the room and was satisfied by the gasps and looks of fear. Taking the needle, he placed the tip against Roma’s leg, and they all watched in disbelief as he pushed it in, all the way to the hilt. It must have reached the bone, yet Roma seemed to feel no pain. He then withdrew the needle and called to the Squire to inspect the mark.

“There is no blood,” the Squire seemed as astonished as the people, and he called on others present to witness this.

There was a general shuffling as everyone wanted to witness this sign, this abomination. Annie sat frozen in her place as the people beside her tried to push past.

“Get in line.”

The shout brought about some order as the pushing and shoving ceased, and they filed past Roma as though viewing a corpse. Some of the women lifted their children to see the mark, and each child was carried away screaming. It was whispered the children, in their innocence, could tell a witch, but Annie knew differently. She watched each child as its eyes moved from the mark to Roma’s face. It was her look of terror frightened the children. Annie pulled her shawl tighter around her. Icy hands seemed to move up her back and she felt the fine hairs on her neck rise. The dark man was looking at her. She held his gaze for a moment, before looking away. The people were filing back to their seats and the crowd around Roma thinned. She was no longer crying; her shame was now absolute. When everyone was finally back in place, the dark man spoke down at the prostrate figure on the table.

“Will you now admit that I have proven it, declare you are a witch and save your soul, if not your life?”

Roma turned her head towards the crowd, searching. Annie saw blood on her mouth. The man was still speaking, but Annie had no idea what he was saying. She was too busy trying to make eye contact with Roma. There were jeers from the crowd and shouts at Roma to admit her guilt, but Annie could not hear any of it. A silence seemed to envelop her, as her mind reached out to contact Roma. Their eyes met and she watched as Roma mouthed three words. Her view was constantly being blocked as some of the villagers ran forward and poked and prodded at Roma. Some of the women pulled her hair, as they screamed at her to admit her sin. Everyone within the room seemed to be caught up in some religious fervency. Annie tried to block it all out, calling to Roma with her mind, tell me? “The Dark One.” She heard it as clearly as it was whispered in her ear. She looked towards the table and Roma nodded at her. The Dark One was here? Annie looked up at Roma’s tormentor. He was staring at her again. This time she did not look away.

A cool breeze ruffled her clothes. She was no longer in the mill. The crowds disappeared, the jeering was no more, and she was no longer in that time. She was standing on a plateau, the full moon lighting the road before her. The grass about her was brown and dry and crunched beneath her feet as she walked. There was no life in this strange, arid place. Blood dripped from the moon staining the velvet blue sky. She walked quickly onwards as the plain parted before her, dividing into two roads. The one to her right looked dangerous. The ground was covered with sharp stones and deadly looking thorns sprang from the blackened hedgerows lining either side. It would be safer and wiser to take the left path. She turned to walk towards it and heard Roma calling out to her.

“Take the right-hand path, Annie. Do not be afraid. This is the right way.”

“But, it’s dangerous.” Annie shouted. “I will walk the other way and meet you at the end.”

“There will be no end if you choose that way. Your journey on this path will be hard and the going slow, but it’s the way to salvation.”

“Such theatricals, don’t you think?”

Annie spun round. The Dark One was walking towards her along the left path.

“I do love a good performance, don’t you?”

“What is this place?”

“This,” he swept his hand around. “Is the place where most decisions are made? It is part of your mind, the darkest part. Yes,” he smiled at her. “We are inside your head.”

“But I would never imagine a place such as this,” she looked at the red moon and ravaged landscape.

“Nevertheless, we are here and it’s your time to decide.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither did I once and like you, I had many questions.

“What do you mean?”

“Enough,” he was angry. “The time grows short and there’s much to be done. Choose now. Take the right path and your suffering will be great. All you love will be punished for your folly. Your sisters will perish if you choose to listen to the words of the gypsy. She has decided her fate and you will see the outcome of that, but you, you have a chance. Watch what happens to her and then decide, but I warn you. Choose her way and her death will be nothing to the death I will give you. Do you understand now?” He leaned towards her.

Annie closed her eyes, not wanting to look at him, but she could smell him. He smelled of freshly baked bread and spring flowers. It was all so familiar to her and yet she turned from it.

“Open your eyes.”

She looked up at him. He was very handsome, and she could not tear her eyes away.

“Come with me, Annie. I will keep you safe and your sisters too. With me there will be no suffering. We could be incredibly happy.”

His eyes burned into her soul. They seemed to light his face and all around her. She wanted to feel safe again. She was so frightened since her parent’s death, and she did not want to suffer like Roma. She did not want Dora, Rose, or Meg to suffer either. He smiled, sensing her weakness, and held out his hand. She hesitated for a moment before slowly, very slowly, her hand moved up from her side to take his. Their fingers were almost touching, when…

“Annie, child,” it was her mother’s voice. There were no tricks this time. “Come away.”

“Don’t listen to it,” The Dark One urged. “It’s a trick.”

“No,” Annie started to back away. “No, it’s you who plays tricks.”

The white hand he reached towards her began to swim and change. The veins stood out against the skin and the fingers stretched and gnarled. The carefully manicured nails turned black and pointed. The fire was still there in his eyes, but the light in them burned like the flames of Hell. His talons reached for her and she held up a hand to stop them.

“No.”

The words formed an invisible barrier and she watched as he clawed the air before her but was unable to penetrate the shield.

“You will pay dearly for this,” he hissed, and she saw his tongue was long and pointed.

“Maybe so, but you will never have what you desire,” with this she launched herself towards the right path, threw herself into the thorns and landed with a thump back on the bench in the mill.

The dark one was still staring at her, but this time he bowed, before going back to his work. She felt the sweat on her face and could smell her own fear. The noise returned; the jeering of the crowd and Roma’s moans filled the air. Annie saw wet patches in her hair and smelt the blood coating it. They were tearing her apart, she had to stop this, but before she could rise his voice rang out.

“Tell us the name of your leader; whom it was initiated you into the Devil’s work.”

Roma moaned and tried to turn away from him, but he caught her hair making her scream and turned her head back towards him. Leaning down, he seemed to be listening to something she said.

“Annie,” his voice rang. “Annie, who?”

Everyone turned towards Annie. She got up, tried to run. She knew Roma had not betrayed her and this was his work, but she was frightened. She did not want to die; she wanted to live. She wanted to see her sisters grown and watch their children grow. It was so unfair; she was no more then a child herself. The hands stopping her flight were strong and vicelike on her arms. She struggled; begged with them to let her go, but her pleas fell on deaf ears.

“Bring her forward. Let us hear what she has to say.”

She knew as they were propelling her forward toward The Dark One, her life was at an end.

Death Cry

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on May 22, 2020

Posted in: banshee, birdsong, hope faith God whispers heaven, books, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, Fairies, Fantasy, fiction, folklore, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, harbinger of death, Haunted Houses, horror, legend, memories, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, screams, sleeplessness, thoughts, wailing cry, Witchcraft, Witches, wraiths, writers, writing. Tagged: banshee, cries, fairies, folklore, Ghosts, harbinger, Horror, legend, spirits, wailing, wotchcraft, wraith. Leave a comment

Chapter One

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.

Annie Ryan knew all about suffering, though hers was of a different kind. Her home was in the hill country, and too wild and desolate to attract the invaders. Still, her pain was intense.

The wind whipped about her, and she gathered her two sisters closer to shield them from its touch. A shuffling beside her made her reach into a hidden pocket in the folds of her skirts, and she withdrew two coins. These were dropped into the dirty, outstretched hand of the gravedigger. Grunting his thanks, he pocketed the money and walked away. She never looked at him; as her eyes were fixed on the twin mounds in the earth, the place where they had just buried her mother and father. Annie, despite her knowledge of herbs and healing was not able to save them, and they died within hours of one another, victims of a plague that was raging in the village. It had claimed many lives up to now. The elders spoke of witchcraft, of a curse being put on them, but Annie knew it was not so. It came from the earth and from the rats and other vermin that abounded on it. There was nothing sinister about what was happening. The summer was long and hot. The meat grew putrid in hours, the milk soured, and the air was filled with flies that landed on the food leaving disease behind. She had no idea how she knew of such things, but she did. She had the power to see things others could not. Her sense of hearing and smell was more heightened than others, and she could hear the flapping of bee’s wings or smell the blood of a trapped rabbit, as it struggled to get free from its snare. Of course, her mother warned her never to speak about it, but word got around, and it was whispered she was a witch and in league with the Devil. She had been amused by the stupid talk and the women who made the sign against the evil eye, when she passed, but it was no longer funny. She had to be both mother and father to her sisters. Dora, the baby of the family had turned six and Rose, just three-years-older at nine, were all she had left in the world.

Annie was seventeen and used to her job as big sister, but it was under the guidance of her mother. Now she must stand alone, raise them as best she could and keep the promise she made to her mother on her deathbed.

Ushering the weeping girls away from the graves, she started towards home. Their cottage was on the outskirts of the village. It was hidden by the tall trees surrounding it and she liked it that way, it felt safe. A dark, thatched roof covered walls made from stone and mud. From a distance it looked quite picturesque and enchanting, but the truth was something else. It was cold and damp inside, moss and weeds grew between the cracks and crevices, and no amount of cleaning could keep it away. The few clothes they had felt wet against the skin, even though they hung from a rope stretched over the fire. The cold seeped into the bone, and it was easier to work outside than in. Her father farmed the large plot of land beside the cottage and this kept them in vegetables throughout the year. He was also a woodcutter and as well as supplying half the village with firewood, his carvings were everywhere. From the ornate arms of chairs, that would not have looked out of place in a manor house, to the small wooden dolls he made for his girls. He was truly gifted, everyone said so, but not in the way Annie was.

There were few enlightened souls in that dark time. Religious practices were frowned upon. It was a time of mistrust and grave superstition. When the dark deities who walked the land and circled the air found it easy to gain power

Annie sighed, as she sank into a chair, exhausted in both mind and body. Her sisters stood before her, frightened and unsure, so she held out her arms and they rushed into them. They felt warm, their touch familiar against her skin. They sniffled and burrowed even closer and she wanted to cry with them. The cottage was quiet. It was an after the funeral quiet, when one is alone with one’s thoughts, and the grief, the sense of overwhelming loss hits.

“Come now,” she roused them. “We’ll have something to eat. It’ll make us feel better.”

They nodded, and while Annie set about preparing the meal, they laid the table. She had already made a stew of beef, carrots, and potatoes, and this only needed to be reheated. The comforting, mouth-watering smell soon invaded the small kitchen, but she had no appetite. She stirred the food, glad of having something to do, and not wanting to turn and see the look on her sisters’ faces. The clatter of spoons and plates being put on the table seemed hollow and unnatural. Even the soft birdsong drifting in angered her.

She wrapped a cloth around the handles of the stew pot and brought it to the table. Taking a wooden ladle off its peg, she dished the steaming food onto the three plates. Her father carved this for her mother. Its large, deep curve narrowed up into a handle with the most intricate and delicate shapes of the trees growing in abundance outside the cottage. She fingered the wood for a moment and realizing her sisters were watching her, hurried the pot back to its place by the fire. They had their hands joined and their heads bowed when she sat down and were waiting for her to give thanks. Thanks for what; for being left frightened and alone with two small children? She could not bear to offer up a prayer. She was angry with both God and man.

“Will you say the blessing, pet?” She asked Rose.

“Please, God,” Rose whispered. “Please keep my Mam and Dad safe in Heaven. Bless me and Dora, but especially Annie. Do not let her get the sickness and die as well. Amen.”

The sobs Annie tried so hard to contain bubbled free, as she listened to the child’s prayer. Pushing her plate away, she put her head down on the table and howled. The days and nights of careful nursing had left her exhausted. There were a few times, when one or the other of her parents showed signs of rallying and her heart soared. But her hopes were dashed again and again, until finally they succumbed. She cried until she felt sick; big tears ran into the grooves and notches in the table wood forming tiny pools. She did not hear the soft crying of her sisters as they stroked her back, or the opening of the cottage door.

“Annie Ryan, you stop sniffling this minute.”

She wiped her eyes and stared at the figure silhouetted in the doorway. Meg Matthews stood leaning on her walking stick, her face stern beneath the hood of her black cape. Meg had been in her life as far back as she could remember. She was honorary grandmother to the three girls and Annie’s teacher. Meg had the gift, but hers was not as strong as Annie’s. As soon as she was old enough to talk, Meg took her under her wing and taught her the names of plants and roots. The art of healing came easily to Annie. The art of combining herbs and roots and discovering which ones were poisonous and harmful and could bring about death if not properly handled, was learned with amazing speed. Annie watched, still sniffling, as the old woman hobbled her way towards the fire, her stick tapping on the stone floor.

“Come here, child,” she ordered when she was comfortable in a chair.

Annie stayed where she was. She was numb with grief and her eyes felt sore from crying. With her free hand, Meg withdrew something from beneath her cape and the two younger girls ran to her with exclamations of delight. Annie got up to see what all the fuss was about. A small black kitten stood on the old woman’s lap. It purred and arched its back towards the gentle stroking of the children’s hands.

“Is he ours, Meg?” Dora asked. “Can we keep him?”

“What do you say, Annie?” Meg smiled.

Annie ran the back of her hands across her cheeks, wiping away the last few tears. She looked down into the hopeful, upturned faces of her sisters, and realized for the first time that day, there was no sign of their loss.

“I dare say he’ll not eat us out of house and home.”

“He’ll not be long in growing and filling out,” Meg handed the kitten to the girls. “Take him outside and play.”

They went out, squabbling over who owned the kitten, and what his name was. When they were out of earshot, Meg turned to Annie.

“Sit by me child and listen well. It will do you no good to grieve so. Those little ones need you to be strong. Your parents, God rest their souls,” she crossed herself. “Are safe and in God’s hands. They’d not want you to go on like this, now would they?”

“No,” Annie mumbled.

“It’s not that my heart doesn’t bleed for you and your loss, child. But it is your health I’m thinking of. Grief makes you weak, and in times such as these any weakness can be fatal.”

She knew Meg was right, but she had a right to be sad. The old woman seemed to read her thoughts.

“Of course, you’ve a right to grieve, and they’ll be many times in the days ahead when you’ll want to cry, but all I’m saying is don’t let it overwhelm you, understand?”

“Yes,” Annie rose from her chair and knelt beside the old woman.

The thin arms encircling her were strong and the heavy woollen cape smelt of the woods. Of evergreens and hollyhock, even the warmth of the sun seemed trapped within its fibres.

“I’d have come with you today, child. But my old legs are playing me up again, and I find the walking hard.”

“I know you would.”

“Was there anyone else there?”

“No, no one, just me and the girls.”

“Not even old Mary O Brien and her scrawny son?”

“No one.”

“Well, the curse of God on them and they related by blood to you. The least they could’ve done was show their faces.”

“They might be sick.”

“Sick indeed,” the old woman snorted. “Not even the sickness would touch those two. “Why, they’d skin a flea for its hide. The grasping, miserly pair of them that’s in it.”

“Am I to take it you don’t like them, Meg?”

The old woman laughed.

“I suppose you could say that,” then serious. “Your father took care of everything?”

“Yes, everything,” Annie knew what she meant.

Her father called one of the elders to him when he realized how sick he had become. The cottage and the two acres with it, he willed to Annie, an unthinkable thing in a time when land was passed to the male heir. Women rarely owned anything, and if it had not been for her father’s hindsight, they would be homeless, and the cottage and property in the hands of his distant cousin, Hugh O Brien.

“That’s good,” Meg was relieved. “That keeps you safe for now.”

“Why for now?”

“Ach, don’t mind me child and my old ramblings. Here, help me stand.”

Annie got up and held out her arm. Meg, leaning on it, groaned her way up.

“I’ll need your help come morning. They’re coming to me in droves looking for medicines to ease their suffering,” she stopped on the threshold. “You’ll collect the herbs and roots I need?”

“Of course.”

“Good girl,” Meg patted her hand. “We have a hard-few weeks before us. The sickness grows stronger and the need for help greater. You’ll have to take it to those too ill to leave their beds.”

“I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

“I know you will.”

Annie watched her until she was lost from sight. She heard her sisters’ shouts of farewell echoing from within the forest, and the old woman stopped long enough to wave to them. Annie had no way of knowing, as she went inside to reheat the food, how troubled Meg was.

Two acres of land and a cottage might not seem much, but people have killed for less. Acquiring such left Annie open to the fortune hunters, who would do anything to get their hands on them. There was one, Meg thought, as she walked along, that no-good Hugh O Brien. He had never worked an honest day in his life, despite the fact he lived in one of the best houses in the village. Well under the thumb of his scheming mother and apt to do anything on her say so, he posed a very real threat to Annie. She saw the way he looked at the girl. Meg beat at the ferns in her path with her stick and wished all the while each one was Hugh. Still, who could blame him? Annie was the most beautiful woman in these parts. There were few who failed to notice her, with her waist-length auburn hair hanging about her like a thick cloak, and the green, searching eyes that seemed to look into your very soul. But he was no good and his feelings for Annie were nothing but lust. He was not capable of loving her or anyone else. He was best avoided, and she’d see he was kept away from the child, one-way or the other. She shivered remembering the dreams. They came regularly now, disturbing her sleep and making her days as restless as her nights; always the same, never deviating in any way. That was what frightened her the most, they were so real. Each one starting with a low chanting, rising to a scream, and the crackling of burning timber, and red flames leaping high into the darkness surrounding them. She smelt the smoke, even now in the clear air. It was a bad omen. There was something evil in the air. There was talk of a curse being placed on the village, but she had dismissed this as superstitious nonsense. The ignorant folk were always looking for someone to blame for life’s tragedies. It was a puzzle, and as she walked homewards, she prayed her sleep would be undisturbed that night.

Death Cry

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on May 21, 2020

Posted in: banshee, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Death Cry, Eerie Places, Fairies, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, harbinger of death, horror, memories, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, screams, sleeplessness, wailing cry, wraiths, writers, writing. Tagged: banshee, Gothic, Horror, revenge, screams, wailing, wraith. Leave a comment

PROLOGUE

The sun had set on what was a very warm midsummer’s day in Ireland. 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 had 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 had not 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 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 had 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 had waited for. He was the last male in his line and soon he would be no more. All the evil and wickedness would be ended, and she could rest in peace. Her crying would cease once he was dead. She would wrap herself around him, her arms the embrace of a cold lover and they would return to the dark earth together. He would have no other choice; he was powerless to resist her. There is no escaping the cry of the Banshee

Despite the strong sedative she was given Jill tossed and turned in her sleep, trying to escape the pain of her wounds. She was aware only of the hushed tones of her mother’s voice as she begged her to lie still. When she finally managed to struggle free of the drugs’ effects, she traced her eyes along the line that ran from her arm to the overhead bag on the drip stand. Groaning, she turned to where her mother sat knitting.

“Ah, you’re back with us at last,” she put aside the needles and laid a cold hand on Jill’s forehead. “Not too bad,” she decided, taking her hand away.

“I feel bad,” Jill struggled to sit and groaned, as the wounds protested the movement.

“Here, let me help you,” her mother’s arms felt strong, as they hoisted her up in the bed. “There now,” she plumped up the pillows.

“Thanks, Mam,” Jill was sweating from the effort.

“Are you in pain?” Her mother asked.

“A little,” Jill lied, not wanting to distress her.

Hum,” her mother as always, knew she was lying and reaching across the bed, the pressed the buzzer beside the pillow.

Instantly a nurse appeared, carrying a steel bowl.

“Hello, Jill,” the nurse busied herself filling a syringe from a vial. “This will help the pain,” she plunged the needle into the line in Jill’s arm.

“Thank you.” She felt the drug’s effects as her face grew warm and the throbbing of her skin eased.

“She’ll probably sleep now,” the nurse laid her arm on her mother’s shoulder. “You should have a rest, get a drink or something to eat,” she suggested.

“Yes,” her mother rose stiffly from the chair. “I’ll do that.”

Leaning across her daughter, she once again checked her forehead for sign of fever.

“I’m going down to the canteen,” she whispered. “I won’t be long. You try and sleep. Toby and your father will be in to see you later.”

“Thanks, Mam,” Jill’s tongue felt dry and her words slurred.

“Jill,” the voice roused her, and she struggled to open her eyes.

The light was on in the room, and as the curtains had not yet been drawn, she saw the darkness outside the window.

“How are you feeling?”

She looked up bleary-eyed at the doctor who bent over her

“Sore,” she managed to croak.

Yes, you will be for some days, I’m afraid,” he picked up the water glass beside her bed and helped her take a sip.

It was cool against her parched throat and she licked her lips, savouring the taste.

“We’ll need to keep you here another day,” he said, “in case of infection. I must admit, I’ve never seen anything like it. A stray dog, your mother says.”

“Yes,” Jill’s mother appeared as if by magic. “It was bothering the sheep and she went out to chase it away.”

“Good God, you were lucky to escape any more harm,” he said. “It could have been much worse. Many of the scars will heal by themselves and we have an excellent plastic surgeon here who can deal with the more obvious ones. Now try and rest,” he patted her hand, before leaving the room.

“Plastic surgeon?” She looked in terror at her mother.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she brushed aside her worry. “A few small scars on your neck and chest that’s all.”

Jill brought a hand up to feel her face. It felt smooth and unmarked, but when her fingers traced down the line of her jaw and under her chin, she felt the first of many dressings.

“He says,” her mother nodded at the doctor’s retreating figure, “you can go home tomorrow, if your temperature stays down.”

“Oh good,” Jill said, but her smile belied her true feelings.

Here, in the sterile surroundings of the hospital, the memory of the past few weeks was like a bad dream. Once she returned home, there would be no choice but to face what had happened.

“I’ll come back later,” her mother shrugged on her coat. “And I’ll bring your father and Toby to visit.”

“What did you tell Toby?”

“I said you fell into a thorn bush and got scratched.”

“And he believed you?”

“He certainly didn’t press the matter any further. Now get some rest and I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

Once her mother left, the fear Jill felt over the past weeks returned and she was once more a child, alone and abandoned. Outside in the corridor, she heard the bustle of everyday life. She looked around the small private ward and wondered how she was going to pay for her stay. After Joe left them, she had no longer been able to afford the payments on her private health insurance policy and she knew the bill for her care would run into thousands. The small mirror above the hand basin beckoned to her and she rose stiffly and made her way across to it, using the IV stand as a crutch. Her reflection was terrible to behold, and she gasped and gripped on the cold porcelain sink. Her face, though bruised and swollen, was left largely untouched by the Wraith’s nails, but a long dressing ran beneath her chin and disappeared below the neck of the hospital gown. Pulling the neck of the gown free from her body, she looked down at the numerous dressings stuck like snowy train tracks across her skin. The one beneath her breast was the largest and most painful and she grew weak remembering the agony as the Wraith had searched for her heart.

Gritting her teeth, she peeled away the dressing on her neck. Some of the stitches stuck to the dressing and brought tears to her eyes, as she eased them away from the dried blood. The skin beneath was puckered and raw looking and the row of black stitches made it look even worse. Groaning, she stuck the dressing back in to place and made her way back to the bed. She had just covered herself, when someone knocked on the door.

“Come in,” she watched the door swing open and Tom appeared, carrying a large bouquet of roses.

“Thank you,” Jill held out her arms to accept his gift. “They’re lovely.”

“You don’t look too bad,” he pulled her mother’s recently vacated chair closer to the bed and sat down.

“Liar,” she smiled.

“Considering,” he raised his hands in mock defeat.

“I’m going to have a few scars,” she touched the dressing on her neck.

“Battle scars,” he nodded, “And by God, it was some fight.”

“Yes,” Jill agreed. “It certainly was.”

They sat in silence, unsure of what to say next.

“Do you think she’s gone for good,” Jill asked.

“Yes, I don’t doubt it. It’s strange, but I feel as though a load has lifted.”

“Can you ever forgive me?”

“I’ve thought of nothing else over the past few days and I’d be a hypocrite if I said I wouldn’t have done the same thing to get Rachael back,” the sorrow in his voice at the mention of his child’s name was obvious. “Look at it this way; I got to see my little girl again.”

“Yes,” Jill whispered. “At least something good came out of it for you.”

“You know,” he stopped and wiped his eyes. “Marie was always nervy, and our marriage wasn’t always plain sailing, but that thing back there, that Wraith was not Marie, it was something else, something dark and evil.”

“I know what you mean,” Jill agreed.

“Let’s change the subject,” Tom said. “I met Paul this morning.”

“How is he?”

“A bit shaken up, like all of us, but he’s different, more assured,” He looked at her. “Does that sound strange?”

“No, I think what happened to us is bound to have some lasting effect.”

“Anyway, he said to give you his best and tell you he’ll call to see you later.”

“Great,” Jill said. “He’s been a tower of strength. I don’t know what I would have done without him.”

“He’s been put up for all sorts of awards for solving the case and get this,” Tom laughed. “He’s taking early retirement. I’d like to bet on how long that will last.”

“He’s not leaving the village, is he?”

“No and he says you’re not either. Your father told him about the gossip, and he says he’ll soon put a stop to it.”

“No doubt he will,” she laughed.

“He’s a very determined man,” Tom agreed. “He’s been in touch with his sons and talks of visiting the grandchildren.”

“I’m glad; it’s not good to be so alone.”

“No,” Tom said, and his voice was filled with sadness. “It’s not.”

They talked for what seemed like minutes, but was in fact, hours. The arrival of Toby and her parents interrupted them, and Tom left with the promise to call to the house the next evening. Toby fussed over her dressings and thought the IV was cool, as he had only ever seen one before on the television. His eyes widened when she recounted the tale of how she had fallen into the holly bush, but his quiet acceptance of the story bothered her. Had he already witnessed so many strange events in his short life he no longer questioned them or was he just too worn out to care?

Well, my friends, just three more chapters and an epilogue to go. I hope you have enjoyed my little offering and that it did something to take your mind away from the true horror of the virus. Since the beginning of time, when cavemen gathered around blazing fires and told tales of strange spiritual beings that haunted the land, the horror stories have tried to take the mind away from the very real dangers lurking outside our little sanctuaries. In Ireland we are still in lock-down, as we strive to protect our loved ones from the danger that threatens us. I hope wherever you are, that you and those you love are safe and well. Happy reading.

The Wraith led the cars ever deeper into the winter gloom. After a few miles, they turned off the main road and drove down a disused track. They bounced on the uneven surface as the wheels hit one pothole after another. The bushes and trees on either side of the road were so overgrown branches scratched the paintwork of the cars’ roofs and sides. The sound made Jill’s teeth ache, as it reminded her of nails on a blackboard. There was no sign of the Wraith; it had disappeared into the night the moment they left the main road. But it would not be far away and the track they now travelled was journey’s end. Neither of them spoke, too caught up in private thoughts. A pinprick of light appeared in the distance and the flashing of headlight from behind them meant Paul had seen it too.

Tom stopped the car in the middle of the track as there was no place he could pull in, no indent in the wild bushes.

“We’ll go on foot from here,” Paul ran up to them. “We don’t want them to hear us.”

“Well, they’re not going to be able to drive past us,” Tom said. “That’s for sure.”

They squeezed between the bushes and the car. The branches clutched at their coats, digging thorns into the soft wool, trying to drag them back until they were forced to tear the offending claws away. The icy winter moon shone down on the small party as they made their way along the track.

Ahead of them the Wraith swooped through the trees. Animals of the night stopped and watched the silent shape go past. Owls peeped from hallows of trees in a wood haunted by the echoing screams of children.

The cottage hunched at the end of the rough track. The windows on either side of the door were black. Whatever light they had seen was extinguished, but there was doubt someone was about, as three cars lined the small parking area in front of the cottage. Jill shivered and tried not to cry, when she thought of what her son endured in this hellish place.

“We’ll check round the back,” Paul whispered. “Just to make sure there’s no other exit.”

With the aid of the small torch, they picked their way round the side of the cottage. A terrible stillness filled the air, broken only now and then by the hallow cry of a curlew echoing from the marshy ground beyond the wood. The overgrown garden behind the cottage smelt of death. Another sound broke the silence of the night the lament of someone in the most extreme pain and they came around the side of the cottage and found the Wraith kneeling over three small mounds in the earth.

“Don’t make this any harder,” Mr Jackson said, reaching for Toby.

“Leave me alone,” he hit at the outstretched hand and tried to burrow back against the mouldy timber.

“Hold this,” Mr Jackson handed the strap back to Freddy and crawled onto the bed to get a better grip on the boy.

Toby screamed, as his teacher’s hands closed on him like a vice and the sound mingled with the cries from outside.

“What the fuck was that?” Christy asked.

A hand clamped over Toby’s mouth. The men looked towards the ceiling and hardly dared breathe as they listened. It was constant now, one continuous, mournful wail that caused the fine hairs on their necks to stand.

“Probably a vixen,” Freddy offered, but none of them believed this.

“Should I look?” Christy asked.

“If you like,” Freddy shrugged. “I’m not going out there.”

Toby tried to wriggle free and received a stinging slap to his head for his trouble.

“It’ll stop in a minute,” Freddy offered. “Whatever it is.”

Tom stayed with the spirit of his dead wife while she mourned over the graves. The others made their way to the front of the cottage. He was now alone in the dark with only the dead for company.

“Is she here?” Tom asked.

“Yes, she’s here,” the Wraith turned to him, the sadness in her eyes made his heart ache.

“I wish I could give you a hug,” he was crying.

“You can,” she stretched out a long, white arm. “Come here and close your eyes.”

He knelt beside the grave of his daughter and did as the Wraith asked. With his eyes closed he felt her beside him, solid and real. She moved closer to him and his body shook as he placed his arms around her. She was cold, colder than the night air, but the contours of her body were as familiar as the last time he held her. He expected a smell of death, but if there was one it was lost in the stench of the garden.

Paul put his finger to his lips, warning Jill not to make a sound as he turned the handle on the cottage door. He held a gun in his free hand. She was surprised when he drew it from his coat.

“You didn’t think I was going to come here unarmed, did you?” he asked, and though she never liked the idea of a gun, it was comforting to know it was there to protect them.

The full moon made the cottage interior bright. She followed Paul inside the one room. It smelled of neglect. Cobwebs hung from the rafters; gossamer-white shapes billowed like ghosts above their heads. The walls were decorated with fishing rods and other hunting paraphernalia.

“Look,” Paul whispered, gesturing to the floor, where a thin line of light crept through a trap door.

They tip-toed forward and knelt ears to the floor, listening.

“There’s definitely someone down there,” Paul said, and Jill nodded.

They were leaning on the trap door when it started to move, but their weight made it impossible to open it fully.

“Police,” Paul’s roar made her jump. “The cottage is surrounded. Stand back from the door. Armed officers are about to enter and will shoot on sight.” Turning to Jill, he whispered. “Get Tom.”

She ran out and round the back of the cottage.

“They’re in the cellar,” she was too frightened to be in awe of the sight of Tom with his arms around the Wraith. “Paul needs you.”

He followed her back inside. Paul held up a hand when he saw them outside the door.

“Make as much noise as you can,” he whispered.

They ran across the bare floorboards and their footsteps echoed like thunder hoping to make it seem, to the listeners below they were indeed surrounded by dozens of men.

“What’ll we do?” Christy looked at Freddy, ashen faced.

Mr Jackson dropped Toby on to the bed and cowered in a corner of the room. Freddy used all his powers of restraint, as he answered.

“It’s time to face the music old chaps,” he sneered at Jackson’s quivering figure. “They’ve caught us bang to rights, as they say. I could have given us an easy and painless exit, but I left my bag in the car. What’s the worst that can happen, few years in jail? An expensive lawyer will have us out in four at the most.”

“What about the boy,” Christy looked at Tony who shivered on the bed.

“Kill him. The last thing we need is a witness. What’s one more?”

Toby screamed as hands reached for his throat. Dry, coarse hair covered the knuckles and he smelled the stench of the tobacco-stained fingers.

“Toby,” Jill cried, as his scream reached them.

Paul threw back the trap down and descended the ladder with an agility that belied his age.

“Move away from the boy,” she heard him shout, as Tom climbed down after him.

At the sight of the gun, Christy released his grip on Toby’s neck. When Jill reached the bottom of the ladder, the three men were herded in one corner.

“Mam, oh Mam,” Toby ran to her. “I knew you’d find me.”

Jill was sobbing too much to speak, as she lifted her son in her arms and felt his familiar soft hair against her cheek.

“I have a sore throat,” he pulled back a little.

“Have you, darling?” she managed to say. “Never mind, you’ll soon be home and tucked up in bed.”

A shadow slid down the ladder behind them and Toby stared in wonder at the Wraith. Mr Jackson whimpered, and his companions drew back in terror as it advanced.

“Let the law deal with them,” Paul said, looking directly at it for the first time.

“They killed my child,” it ignored him. “And now they will pay.”

It reached for them, nails jagged and caked with the earth of the grave.

“Are you Rachael’s Mammy?

The question made it stop and turn around to the child.

“Yes, I am,” it walked back to where Jill stood.

She was amazed her son showed no sign of fear at the dreadful image before him.

“Do you know where my child is?” the Wraith asked.

“Yes, she’s over there,” Toby nodded in to one of the dark corners. “Rachael come out, your Mam’s here.”

Those watching didn’t see the little girl run out of the shadows. All they saw was the Wraith holding her arms out to the empty air. But Toby saw. While Paul handcuffed the bad men, Rachael told her mother all about what had happened. Even Paul and Raymond came forward and joined in the telling.

“We’ve been conned,” Freddy looked at the others. “This is not an official police investigation. I’ll have you badge for this.” He sneered at Paul.

“You’ll pay for what you’ve done,” the Wraith stood, took her daughter by the hand and walked over to them.

“I don’t know what the fuck you are,” Freddy said, putting on a great show of bravado. “But I’m sure you’re nothing a competent exorcist can’t deal with.”

“He hurt us, Mam,” Rachael tugged at her mother’s hand.

The Wraith turned and held her hand out to the boys.

“Come here,” she said, and kneeling, she nodded at Tom and Paul. “These are good men, but they need to see you. Will you do that for me? Show them what the men did to you?”

“Come on, scaredy cats,” Rachael said. “Let’s show them.”

The men watched as the three children swam into view. The light from the lamp fell on their wasted bodies and showed scars and mottled bruises left behind by the men’s lecherous groping.

“Hi Dad,” Rachael waved at her father.

“Hello, sweetheart,” Tom sobbed, on the verge of collapse.

“Will you let these monsters,” the Wraith turned to Paul, “these abominations live and hurt other children?”

“I can’t in good conscience let you alone with them,” he shook his head.

“Forget your conscience,” the Wraith roared. “What do you feel as a man? Will you sleep any sounder knowing they live?”

“You’re wasting your time,” Freddy said. “You’re talking to someone from the old school. He’ll do his duty to the last.”

“Go up,” Paul nodded to Jill and Tom.

With Toby balanced on one hip Jill held onto the ladder with her free hand and climbed up. With only the towel for protection Toby shivered and Tom took off his coat and wrapped it around the child.

“Are you, all right?” Jill asked as they walked to the car.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be right again,” Tom took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” Jill said.

Once Toby was strapped into the back seat, Jill took off her coat and tucked it around his lap. The bottle of energy drink Tom bought for her lay untouched and Toby gulped it down so fast she was afraid he’d lose his breath.

“Why is the man sad?” Toby asked as his mother wiped his mouth.

“He’s sad because he lost someone he loves very much.”

“Give him this,” Toby held out the Superman doll.

“I don’t think that will help,” Jill kissed his forehead. “But I’ll tell him you offered it.”

When she came out of the car Paul was making his way back towards them.

“I gave them a fighting chance.” His eyes were filled with anguish as he held up the three pairs of handcuffs.

“I know it goes against everything you believe,” Jill said. “But the Wraith was right. They would kill again.”

“Still,” Paul looked at the cottage. “No one deserves to die like that.”

“Did the children?” Tom asked.

“You’re a hero,” Jill assured Paul.

“I don’t feel like a hero,” he brushed by them. “I’ll bring a team back tomorrow. Say I’m working on a hunch. We’ll have to think up a story about the boy,” he nodded at the car. “We’ll say Tom found him wandering. Can you get him to stick to that story?” He asked Jill.

“He’ll understand,” she said. “He’s a clever boy.”

Sudden screams resounding in the still night air made them start in terror.

“We best be off,” Paul said, and holding up a small notebook. “I found this in the front of his car.”

They knew who he meant.

“I’ll have to break into the house and remove the diary he talks about; otherwise we’ll all be in trouble.”

They still hear the screams when they reached the end of the dirt track.

“What’s that noise?” Toby looked up at his mother.

“It’s some weird night bird,” her smile belied the terror she felt; wondering if the fate of the men reflected what she would suffer.

Before they turned on to the main road, Tom looked around.

“You’ve been a very brave boy,” he smiled at Toby.

“I wasn’t frightened, not really,” Toby assured him. “I had him.”

Yes, Tom thought, it must be easy to be brave, when your best friend is Superman.

gemmamawdsley

Gemma Mawdsley's Blog.

Death Cry-chapter twenty-four

Death Cry- chapter twenty-three

Death Cry- chapter eighteen

Death Cry-chapter ten

Death Cry- chapter eight

Death Cry

Death Cry

The Wraith-chapter thirty-seven

The Wraith

The Wraith-chapter thirty-two

Gemma Mawdsley Blog Pages

Gemma Mawdsley Novels on Face Book

Follow Gemma on Twitter

Email Subscription

Gemma mawdsley

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Follow Gemma on Twitter

Email Subscription