Ghost Hunters

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The Wraith-chapter twenty-five

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on April 29, 2020
Posted in: birdsong, hope faith God whispers heaven, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Halloween, Haunted Houses, horror, insomnia, memories, monsters, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, twlight, Witchcraft, wraiths, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

          Jill spent the next few hours in study. There was still a lot to learn, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to complete her task without the help of the book. Though it weighed a tonne, she had no choice but to take it with her to the graveyard. A magic circle needed to be drawn around the grave, and she would never memorise the writing and symbols in such a short time. Along with the triangle, candles, incense, and a host of other things, her load would be a heavy one. Dusk had descended when she started to load her things into the car. She fed the dogs before locking them in for the night. Frost settled on the walls and roofs of the outbuildings, and it would be freezing by the time she was ready.

   She decided to leave about ten. This would give the children time to finish their trick or treat, and it would be hours before the two pubs in the village closed. So, there should be no one to disturb her, unless some of the teenagers decided to get up to mischief, frightening one another with dares in the graveyard. Another thing that made her balk, was that she had to be completely naked under the cloak. This was embarrassing enough with no one around to see, but in the middle of winter! The book ordered she must wash, and there was an assortment of pots boiling over the fire. Each one had to be carried upstairs and emptied into the bath. Her back ached by the time she slipped into the water, and though it barely came up to her sides, she managed to scrub herself clean. The body must the spotless, the book said, so she rubbed the cloth along her skin until it glowed red. Once she dried off, she lay down on her bed and prayed. Calling on the highest, and those she loved and lost for help, she closed her eyes and tried to rest. The alarm on her phone was set for nine. This gave her plenty of time to reach the graveyard. The cloak lay across the foot of the bed, so at least she didn’t have to worry about dressing. She was weary from the night of studying and worry about her son. She counted out the rosary, using her fingers as a guide, and whispered the words aloud, as she called on the mother of God.

   The shrilling of the alarm roused her, and she opened her eyes in fright. It was time.

Slipping out from under the quilt, she swung the cloak around her naked body and went downstairs. After turning off lights and making certain the fire was safely banked down, she went outside. Bess, sensing the presence of her mistress, whined, but Jill ignored her, and rechecked the things in the car boot. It would not do to leave something behind. As she had predicted, it was freezing. Small puddles that lined the lane had frozen over, and she heard the crack as the ice gave way under the weight of the car. Her stomach hurt, and not just from the want of nourishment. It was the cold realisation that for the first time in her life, she was truly alone. This feeling was nothing like the one she felt when Joe abandoned them. This was something else, an emptiness that made her heart ache. She wondered, as she drove out onto the main road, if she would ever see her home again? Was she leaving behind the things that had become familiar to her? After tonight, her life would be changed forever. As she neared the village, she was reminded once again it was Halloween. Candles were lit in all the windows to light the way home for the dead and little children darted from house to house, screaming and laughing, as they vied with one another for the best treats. It was familiar, yet she felt so far removed from it all. Last year, Toby dressed as Superman. Though she had tried to explain that the superhero had nothing to do with Halloween, he had insisted, but settled on having his face painted like a skeleton. Was he thinking about that now, she wondered? Did he even know what night it was? Stop, don’t, she warned. If she continued like this, she would be of no use to him.

   The road that led to the graveyard was empty. With no houses around, the only thing that cut through the dark were the car headlights. As she figured, there was no one about when she parked. Wrapping the cloak tightly around her, she carried her first load through the gate. The wind had died down completely, so there was no fear of it whipping the cloth aside, exposing her. The graveyard, that seemed peaceful during the hours of daylight, now became a sinister city of the dead. A faint, white mist rose above the graves, adding to the sense of menace. The old tombs that had earlier just been bricks and mortar now seemed like crouching, dark beasts, ready to pounce.

   She made sure the batteries in the torch were new, and it guided her way along the path between the graves. She was panting when she deposited her load beside Marie’s grave, and she felt she might wet herself from both cold and fear. With no other choice, she squatted behind one of the large cypress trees, and emptied her aching bladder. She felt the warmth of the urine rising from the damp earth, but she had nothing to wipe herself with. Afraid, if she used to cloak to do so she would in some way taint its power, she allowed the last drops to glide down her legs. This added to her discomfort, as she made her way back to the grave. Taking the cans of spray paint, she found in one of the outbuildings, out of a plastic bag, she began to trace the magic circle around the grave. A space had to be left for her to walk through, and this would need to be filled in to complete the circle later. Once this was done, using the book as a guide and with the flashlight in her mouth, she crawled around the cold grass, filling in the names and symbols. Then she set out the candles in their tall, glass containers, in case of wind. Next, the bowls of salt and water. Once all this was in place, she lit the incense and candles. The Triangle of Solomon had to sit outside to circle, and to the right of the grave. This was where the spirit would appear and be contained. While it disturbed her to think she would, in a way, be holding the spirit captive, she had to follow the instructions. The Wraith would be a being of power, but she could only control it, if her spirit was stronger, according to the book. It would be like a shadow that existed to do her will. It would feed on her emotions and strength, and without them, would cease to exist. Her senses had never been so alive, Jill thought, so if that was what it took to keep the spirit alive, there shouldn’t be a problem.

   The time was right, everything was in place, and she was ready to step into the circle, when she heard footsteps approach. Hardly daring to breathe, she fell to her knees and blew out the candles. Whoever it was had a torch, she saw the faint beam through the mist. Pulling the cloak tightly around her, she huddled against the tombstone and waited.

The day had seemed endless for Paul O’Farrell, as he checked the various clues and sightings that led to nothing. Now it was dark, and the searchers had all disbanded and headed for home. Tonight, was a time for family, for gaiety and laughter. He could never figure out Halloween and had always thought of it as a nuisance. He was down six men tonight, as even those who were drafted in were called on to keep the peace in the village.

   The air was freezing when he stepped out of the school, and he pulled his coat collar higher, trying to escape its touch. He came back to the assembly hall to check if there were any phone calls on the whereabouts of the boy, but there was nothing. He was going to lose him, just as he had the other three children. A group of costumed figures ran screaming by him when he stepped outside the gate, and he stopped to watch their progress. At least they were too small to get up to any real mischief. It was the older ones who did the egging and threw the firecrackers. Once the children disappeared into the distance, he walked to his car. The street was quiet now, with just the odd pumpkin lantern to mark the day, but by tomorrow all signs of this holiday would be gone. He knew in the next few days; shop windows would start to fill with toys and cards for the Christmas. Out with the old and in with the new, he thought, as he opened the car door. God, I’m a miserable bastard. He smiled at the idea, but he no longer took pleasure in any occasion. To him festivities meant drunks, wife beaters and vandals. Had he always been that way? He thought of his wife and sons. Had his scepticism been a blight on the holidays? Well, it was too late now. As he drove through the village, he saw through the lit windows family gatherings, that only served to remind him of what he had lost. Maybe, he would try and spend more time with his sons, and there were grandchildren on the scene now. At least he could make sure he did not mess them up. Ah, it’s just the season, he sighed, that makes you feel so lonely. Halloween, the night when life meets death and the spirits rise from the grave. He would not wish that on Maura, not after what she suffered. Though there was never a day that passed without him wishing things could have been different, there were some things that were much worse. Like watching someone you loved slowly eaten away by a pitiless disease. No, he wouldn’t wish that on his worst enemy.

   There was no point in going home, as there was nothing for him to do there but sit and think. He could not go into the pub, as he promised Jill, he would stay off the drink, and he was not the sort who could show restraint in such surroundings by ordering a mineral water. Deciding he would call out and see how she was doing; he steered the car out of the village.

   He knew the minute he drove to the yard; she had not kept her promise. He hoped she would, but the darkened windows of their house told their story. Still, he got out of the car and knocked on the door. When there was no answer, he tried the handle, but it was locked, a sure sign she had gone out, as no one in the area ever felt the need to lock their doors. Across the yard, the old sheepdog barked, the sound muffled by the walls of her cage, and he heard her scratching at the door. Raising the dead, he shook his head in disbelief, but then thought of her words. Would he, if he were in her position, not do the same thing? As it was, there were no new leads, and it looked as though they would never find the child.

   He’d stopped off outside his own house just long enough to collect the things he would need. Now, he walked along the path between the graves trying to find the right one. He had a vague idea where Marie was laid to rest, and he swung the beam of the torch along the tombstones, reading the inscriptions. He didn’t dare call out. Instead he used the shovel he carried as a walking stick to lean on when he stopped beside each grave. He could not bear to think about what he would have to do when he found the right one, and it set his teeth on edge, to think of the sound it would make when the tip of the shovel met the wood of the coffin.

   “Ah, there you are,” his torch beam moved over the crouched figure that huddled against the stone.

   “Go away,” Jill hissed. “You’re not going to stop me.”

   “I’m not here to stop you,” he held out his hand to help her up. “Come on, we haven’t got all night.”

  Jill took the offered hand and stepped warily out of the circle, sure at any moment he would handcuff her. When she realised, he was not going to do so, she looked at the shovel.

   “What are you going to do with that?”

   “I’m going to help you raise the dead. That’s what we’re here for isn’t it?”

   “We’re not going to dig her up.” She would have laughed, if she weren’t so frightened.

   “Oh,” he looked at the shovel in his hand, and then threw it aside. “That’s a relief.”

   “It’s done with symbols and chants,” she waved towards the circle and triangle.

   “I see.” He walked closer and inspected the drawing.

   “I was about to start when I heard you,” she explained.

   “Go ahead, then, I’ll not stop you.”

   “Okay, you move over there,” she pointed to one of the trees. “And whatever you do, don’t make a sound; no matter what you hear or see. Once I’ve started, I can’t stop, and any interruption will ruin everything and probably kill me.”

   “Jesus,” he moved into the shadows. “You’re frightening me now.”

   “There’s no other way,” she said, her eyes filled with sadness. “If it gets too much for you, just walk away.”

   “No, go on.” He couldn’t admit he wasn’t as brave as a woman. “I’ll stay till the end.”

   Jill knew the sacrifice he was making just by being there. If anyone caught them, he would lose his job, and she’d probably end up in a mental home. He remained silent as she relit the candles and incense. More aware than ever of her nudity beneath the cloak, she held tightly to its folds. Once ready, she turned to him.

   “I’m going to start the chant now.” She stepped into the circle and picked up the spray can on the ground to fill in the gap.

She had just taken the cap off the tin when another set of footsteps echoed in the darkness. Dropping to her knees, she once again blew out the candles, and ran to join Paul, who crouched behind one of the larger tombstones. The footsteps came closer.  Sure, of their destination, they moved quickly over the gravelled path. As they waited for whoever it was to appear, Paul looked at her.

   “What have you been doing,” he whispered. “Selling tickets?”

The Wraith-chapter twenty-three

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on April 26, 2020
Posted in: books, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Halloween, Haunted Houses, horror, memories, monsters, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, twlight, Witchcraft, Witches, wraiths, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

           The cold finally drove Jill out of the attic. As the night progressed, her hands lost all feeling and she could no longer hold the book she was reading. Wrapping the books in the protective cover of black material, she sought refuge in the warmth of the kitchen. The light was dim here, and she thought this would afford the brittle pages some protection. Either way, she had to take the chance, or risk catching pneumonia. There was a side table that in the past was used for storing the enamel bowls full of cream. These were later used in the making of butter. But now the table stood forlorn and empty. It would make an ideal desk, and it was big enough to take all four of the books. Once they were spread out on the top, Jill closed her eyes and whispered a prayer of protection for her son. No matter how hard she tried, her mind kept straying back to his distress. Still, she knew his life depended on the words before her, and she would have to try and concentrate, or all would be lost.

   It was difficult to read in the light from the lone ceiling bulb, so she threw more sods of turf onto the fire, and its cheerful blaze gave her tired eyes some relief. The clock on top of the dresser told her it was now 3 am, the dead of night. She shivered and tried to brush aside her unease when she looked towards the window. Sometimes she imagined death itself waited outside, warning her with its presence of what was to be. Despite her determination to be strong, her eyes were drawn again and again to the dark curtains, sure that if she were to part them, the dark spectre would be standing there. She saw its shape in every shadow. It lingered over by the outbuildings and glided along the ditches as she walked the land.

   Stop it, she admonished herself, this is doing no one any good. Wiping her eyes, brushing away the tears that had fallen, she went back to work.

   By morning, just as the first rays of light cut through the darkness, she knew what she had to do. The act she would perform was beyond all human comprehension, but she would do it, nevertheless. The only thing standing in her way was her conscience, and she wondered if she could trust Tom enough to tell him of her plan. Of course, he might be appalled at the idea and threaten her with all sorts of legal action, but it was worth a shot.  She really needed his support. She knew Paul would have her arrested if she told him what she planned. There was nothing for it, but to tell Tom and hope he would back her. It was not an easy decision for her to make. After all, she was going to try and raise his wife from the dead.

   There are times when the very soul calls out to heaven for help, and such was the case for Jill, as she waited for Tom to arrive. She had eaten very little, as the book warned she must fast for the spell to be performed correctly, but despite her meagre meal of dry toast, she still felt sick. Dark moths ran riot in her stomach, which didn’t help to quell the rising nausea, and she thought she’d throw up, when she saw his car drive into the yard.

   “Morning,” he said, his eyes sad, despite the smile. “Have you been up all night?”

There was no denying the bags under her eyes, or the dark circles that only helped to draw further attention to them.

   “I got caught up in the book I was reading,” she helped him out of his coat. “And before I knew it, it was morning.”

   “You must be exhausted,” he followed her into the kitchen, and was surprised to see the books laid out on the tabletop.

   “The attic was too cold,” she explained. “The light is not great here, so I thought they would be okay. I’ve left the curtains closed. I was able to pull the table closer to the middle of the room, so between the bulb and the fire, I managed to see all right.”

   “What have you learned?” He glanced from Jill to the books.

   “Quite a lot, really,” she had no idea how to approach the subject with him, so instead skirted around it. “Have you eaten? I could make you something.”

   “I had breakfast before I came out,” He sat opposite her at the kitchen table

   “Is something bothering you?” He sat opposite her at the kitchen table.

   “I found a way to find Toby.”

   “Jesus, that’s great,” his eyes lit up. “What is it?”

She looked down at the wood, not daring to look at his face as she explained what she learned. The silence in the room once she finished speaking was so heavy, she felt she could have reached out and touched it.

   “Let me get this straight,” Tom said, and she heard how hard he was trying to control his emotions. “You’re planning to try and raise someone from the dead to help you find your son?”

   “Yes. It’s called a Wraith, an avenging spirit.”

   “Are you out of your mind?”

   “Yes,” she said, and jumped up. She walked over to retrieve the book she was reading. “Maybe I am.”

Placing the book on the table in front of him, she pointed to the chapter where she learned what she must do.

   “Read it,” were her parting words, before she went outside to feed the dogs.

While she fussed and petted the animals which were grateful to be free, her eyes strayed back to the house.

   Over half an hour lapsed before she finally got up the courage to go inside. He’d finished reading, and now stared into the fire. His face was ashen, even in the gloom. If he heard her come in, he gave no sign of it, but continued to watch the leaping flames. She sat at the table, and waited, and waited.

   “It’s disgraceful,” he said, his voice echoing in the stillness. “It’s against the laws of God.”

Jill started to cry, big silent tears at first, then racking sobs that could not be quieted. He let her cry and offered no words of kindness or support, until she was sure she had lost him.

   “I’m sorry,” she gulped, wiping her eyes on a dish towel. “I want to find my son.”

   “So, do I, but not like this.”

   “Then tell me how to do it,” she said, starting to get angry. “Tell me how to find him, before it’s too late.”

He didn’t reply.

   “I thought so; you’re like all the rest, full of good intention, but lacking when it comes to real courage.”

   “You call this courageous?” He jabbed his finger into the book. “You think you are some sort of God? That you and you alone, can raise the dead?”

   “I can try.” She stared at him.

Every fibre of his being warned him he should run; leave this place and have nothing more to do with her. Yet, he saw reflected in her eyes the same hopelessness he was forced to witness in his wife’s, and he knew he would stay, despite the risks.

   “Let’s look at this again,” he said, and started to read the words aloud.

Jill had memorised them and her lips moved as he read. In the past, she found it impossible to remember a speech she had written and was at pains to recite poetry in school. Yet the words in the book were engraved on her brain, almost as if she used them before, in another time.

   “Okay,” he was finished. “According to this, we need something called the Triangle of Solomon, which sounds like an instrument of sort and a book called the Key of Solomon. Have you got either?”

   “The cupboard,” Jill pointed towards the ceiling, recalling her grandmother’s letter.

   “Let’s just say these things are up there,” he continued. “You would need a black cloak, candles, incense and human blood!”

   “That’s easy enough. I can buy the incense and candles and use my own blood.”

   “Do you have a black cloak?”

Now she wasn’t sure if he was serious or making fun of her.

   “No,” she tried to control her anger. “It shouldn’t be too hard to find one.”

One of the books on the side table fell to the floor with a resounding thud. Jill ran to rescue it and stuffed back in the pages that fell out.

   “How did that happen?” Tom stood next to her.

   “It probably slid off the material.” She stood and pulled the dark cloth from underneath and handed it to him.

   “Coincidence or what?”

She turned around and saw he held what she had thought was some old material. A hooded cloak draped from his hands. She reached out and touched the cloth, hardly able to believe her eyes.

   “It must have belonged to my grandmother,” she said, and smiled at the softness of the cloth.

   “Still, it’s a bit weird the book called your attention to it.”

   “Now, who’s being paranoid?” She took the cloak and draped it around her.

Though the material smelled old and musty, there was something comforting about the weight of the wool on her shoulders.

   “It fits you,” Tom said, as she twirled around.

   “It’s a cloak; it would fit anyone.”

   “What next?” He asked, resigned to helping her now.

   “Let’s go up to the attic and see what we can find.” She walked towards the door.

As he followed her up the stairs, he tried not to think about the act she was willing to perform to save her son. This was the sort of thing you only ever read about in some horror novel. It would be laughable, if she were not so serious about it.

   The cupboard, her grandmother wrote about stood beside the trunk. This too was guarded by a stout lock, and she didn’t have to look very far for the key, as she had left the ring beside the trunk. Moments later it was open, and she stepped back to get a better look. Jill was now so used to the room she no longer needed the lamp to find her way through it, but Tom lit it and held it up in front of her. They examined the assortment of figures and drawings the cupboard held.

   “Take this,” Tom passed her the lamp and knelt.

She watched as he rummaged at the back of the cupboard before pulling out a wooden triangle. It was painted black and measured about 3x3x3ft.

   “See,” he traced his fingers along the words written on each side. “It’s like the book said, the three sacred names of God.”

   “That must be the Triangle of Solomon,” Jill put the lamp on top of the trunk and started to look through the shelves.

   “I bet this is what we’re looking for,” he said. The old book was heavy, the covers held together by an ornate clasp.

There was no key on the ring that fit, and they had to resort to breaking it open.

   “Yes,” Jill gasped, as the first page came in to view. “It’s the Key of Solomon.”

   “Let’s take them downstairs,” Tom suggested. “It’s too hard to see up here.”

They spent the next few hours studying the book and learning its use.

   “Do you think it could work?” Jill asked when they were finished.

   “Maybe, with a serious practitioner, someone who believes in all this, and knows what they’re doing.”

   “Not a novice like me?”

   “Do you really think a spell can raise the dead?”

   “I think it’s like my grandmother said. It’s impossible to disturb one who lies in restless sleep.”

   “Like whom, for instance?” He was getting tired of this nonsense.

   “I don’t know,” Jill bit her lip, and was reminded it had still not healed. “Someone with unfinished business, perhaps.”

   “Go on, say it,” his face was set hard. “No, then I’ll say it for you. Like my wife. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”

   “I wasn’t necessarily thinking along those lines.” She hoped he didn’t notice her blush. “I was just thinking out loud.”

   “No, you weren’t,” he said, shaking from temper. “You were thinking about Marie.”

   “Tom, please,” she touched his hand, but he sprang back as though her touch burned.

   “Get that out of your mind, right now,” he said and stalked into the hall. He grabbed his coat off the peg. “I should have listened to my instinct, and left hours ago.”

He was about to slam the front door, but she caught it before he could, and threw it open.

   “I’m going to do it,” she screamed, and ran after him.

He was already in his car, the door locked, when she tried the handle.

   “Listen to me, Tom,” she beat her fists on the glass. “I am going to find my son, with or without your help, and I’m doing it tonight.”

He wound the window down, his face transformed from the gentle man she had come to know to one barely able to contain his rage. He was spitting as he spoke.

   “You stay the fuck away from my wife’s grave, I’m warning you.”

   “Is Marie at rest?” she ran to keep up with the car, “or is she waiting for Rachael to come home? Ask yourself that, Tom is she still waiting? Will you deny her the chance to find her daughter?”

The Wraith-chapter twenty-one

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on April 24, 2020
Posted in: Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Halloween, Haunted Houses, horror, insomnia, memories, monsters, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, twlight, Witchcraft, Witches, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

          The attic always seemed a place of endless night. Lighting the lamp, Jill moved along the pathway she made the day before. Nothing to bar her way, as all the various bits of furniture and curios were moved back. She knelt and placed the lamp beside her on the floor. To her disgust, she found the keys were still sticky with Joe’s blood. After wiping them on the leg of her jeans, she tried each one in the lock. The catch gave way, and she sat back on her heels, her heart beating faster as she envisioned the things she would find inside. Reaching tentatively out, she rested her fingers against the wood for a moment before lifting the lid. The smell emanating from inside was overpowering, and she drew back a little. Bess yawned; the scent had roused her from her sleep. The sound broke the silence of the room and caused Jill’s heart to leap.

   “God, that’s bad,” she wafted her hand to disperse the small cloud of dust rising from the trunk’s innards.

          It was the odour of musk and decay. Once the initial blast of trapped air passed, it diluted to a more acceptable smell one of herbs, old cloth and the dry, familiar scent of books.

Jill leaned in and started to remove the contents. There were numerous jars, labelled with the names of plants and roots she never heard of before. Some were reduced to dust in their long wait, and she held them up against the lamp for a better view. Others were darker and forbidding, and she shook their containers to make sure they were what they seemed, long dead things. It took her quite a while to empty all the jars from the trunk, and it was only when she had done this that she was able to see what else it held. A dry stick made of wood and wrapped with a sort of ivy leaf. Jill brought it to her nose and sniffed. It smelled of the forest, and the brittle berries still clinging to the vine told her it was, in fact, mistletoe.

   Laying it to one side, she reached in and tried to withdraw a large, cloth-wrapped bundle. It was heavy and she was forced to stand to lift it out. It landed on the floor with a resounding thud, and as she started to open the folds of the material, Bess got up to see what she was doing. The books, that had up to now been hinted at appeared. Bess sniffed and pushed her nose so close against them Jill had to push her away, afraid she would damage them. Though there was nothing about the faded covers to give any indication as to what the brown-edged pages held Jill imagined she felt their energy flow through her fingers every time she touched them.

   She smiled, when she opened the cover of the top copy, and saw her grandmother’s familiar scrawl. It was a diary of sorts, but not one that held old family recipes or told stories about the day to day running of the farm. Instead it listed cures and charms. How the roots and herbs in the jars must be used for healing. Some small sheets of paper, whiter than the pages, were stuck in the centre of the book, and Jill pulled them from their hiding place. It was a letter addressed to her, and from the date on the top, she saw it was been written three years before her grandmother died. Her knees ached from kneeling on the hard-wooden floorboards, so she eased her way down, and pulled the lamp closer in order to read.

   My dearest granddaughter

I know the time I foretold has now come to pass and I weep for your sorrow. Though I have no idea what it is that blights your life, I pray the answer lies within the pages of the books set out before you.

Jill looked at the stack on the floor and wondered how her grandmother knew so much. She felt her presence in the air all around her, urging her on.

Ours is the knowledge of centuries past, and though you do not know it yet, you were chosen to carry on my work. I wonder if your mother has told you about your ancestor, Isabelle. If not, let me give you a brief outline. She was just sixteen when they burned her as a witch. You will see from her records that she, like you, was born with the power, but her beauty was her downfall. It was easy in those far off days to accuse a woman of being a witch, of casting an enchantment spell on a man. A woman in the village pointed the finger at her, saying she had bewitched her husband, and the innocent child was murdered because of this. The same family still resides in the village today. There is no need to give you their name; instinct will warn you of them.

   She could hear her grandmother’s sigh of resignation, as she read the next line.

Nothing much has changed throughout the centuries, and women are still not kind to their own sex.

   Do not be afraid to use any of the spells that lie within the covers of the books. There is nothing in there that can harm you, or another living soul. We do not consort with those who practise the dark arts, but should your need be great then your ally is among the dead. A soul that does not rest cannot be disturbed. The gift you possess can be a dreadful one, and the art of the Necromancer is rarely used, except in the direst of circumstances. Calling on the dead takes courage, but if you need their help, do not hesitate. I know, my dearest child you would not do so unless all was lost, and though I would like to tell you that it does not have a price, I cannot vouch that it will not leave some dark stain on your soul.

   There are maps, charts and other instruments in the cupboard beside the trunk. Never stray from the instructions, and protect yourself with the cloak, and other symbols of light, you will find as your search for knowledge continues. Know this child, those of us who have gone before are watching over you and will guide your steps. Never fear and never falter once you have chosen your path, and remember I am with you always.

Love, until the end of time

Your grandmother

Bethany

          Jill was crying when she finished reading. The loss of her grandmother hurt more than ever and added to her pain. Wiping her eyes with the back of her hands, she pushed the letter back inside the book and began to read. Hours flew by with nothing to disturb her. She drank in each word of the diary, and then moved on to the next book. This one was over two hundred years old, the date proclaimed, and it harder to understand, as the words were sometimes spelled differently. There were some things written within the pages that made her shiver. The writer recalled dark days, when ignorance and superstition ruled, and those with the power to heal were spat upon. Here too she found the spells of her ancestors and was careful to replace the pages in the right order as some had come loose from their bindings.

   “Hello.”

She dropped the book she was holding. Bess jumped at the sound and looked towards the attic door. The voice came again.

   “Hello, is anyone home? Jill are you there?”

Christ! Jill stood and picked up the lamp. This was one of the worst things about the country. People tended to walk in when their knocking went unanswered. If that happened in the city, they would be arrested.

   “I’m just coming down,” Jill called. “Wait there.”

She extinguished the lamp, and beckoned Bess to follow her down. When she got to the top of the stairs, she saw it was Tom, Rachael’s father who called her.

   “Sorry,” he pointed to the front door. “It was open.”

   “That’s okay.” she walked down to him. “I was in the attic. That’s why I didn’t hear you. Any news from the search?”

   “No, nothing, I’m sorry,” he shook his head. “But I thought I’d come out and see how you were.”

   “That’s very kind of you,” she led him into the kitchen. “Would you like a coffee?”

   “Thanks,” he sat down at the table, and watched as she threw sods of turf into the remnants of the fire.

   “It shouldn’t take long,” she assured him.

She sat opposite him as she waited for the kettle to boil. At first, he seemed lost for words, and the silence between them was uncomfortable. Finally, he spoke.

   “Do you mind if I run something by you?”

   “No,” she was glad of anything that would ease the tension.

   “I have a theory. It’s nothing positive, but I think that it’s someone close to the children who has been taking them.”

   “Like a teacher, or….? Jill left the words hanging.

   “Yes, that’s what I mean. Someone who has access to them. It could be someone in the shop where they buy their sweets, anyone.”

   “Toby doesn’t know anyone around here, and he never goes to the shops on his own.”

   “I don’t know what to think,” Tom laced his fingers together to stop them shaking. “But I have a gut feeling it’s someone close to home.”

   “Did Rachael go to the same school as Toby?”

   “No,” he had to agree that this trail seemed unlikely. “But they do bring the schools together, for sports days and the like.”

   “Still, it’s farfetched,” she got up and walked over to the fire.

The dry turf started to blaze as soon as it had hit the embers and the water was now bubbling and spitting. Swinging the arm out from the fire, she wrapped a cloth around the handle of the pot and carried it back to the table. After filling the waiting mugs with boiling water, she placed the kettle back on the hearth.

He sipped his coffee and played with the small granules of sugar that had fallen on the wood.

   “Listen,” he cleared his throat,” I’m sorry, if I’ve upset you with my stupid theories.”

   “No, you haven’t,” she assured him. “What you said has a ring of truth to it, and it can be no crazier than what I’m planning to do.”

She was saved from having to explain by Bess scratching on the door, begging to be let out. It was dark outside, the yard lit only by the ghostly white light of the full moon. When Jill came back into the kitchen, she looked at the clock on the dresser, and was surprised to see it was gone eight.

   “You were saying?” Tom asked.

   “Oh, it’s nothing, really,” she blushed a little at the thoughts of having to explain about her grandmother’s books.

   “No, go on,” he urged. “Anything is worth a try.”

   “You’ll think I’m mad,” she warned, before telling about what she had found in the attic.

When she finished speaking, she held up her hand.

   “I know, I know, it’s crazy; you don’t have to tell me.”

He said nothing for a moment, and it was impossible to read his face.

   “May I see them?”

   “What,” she was amazed. “The books?”

   “Yes, I’d like to, if you don’t mind?”

   “I don’t want to bring them down here. They’re very old, and the air in the attic is dry and suitable for storage.”

   “Could I go up there?”

   She thought for a moment, and then shrugged. What harm could it do?

   “There’s no electricity,” she warned him, as they climbed the stairs. “I have an old lamp, but the oil is running low, and I can’t find any in the house.”

   “Bourke’s, in the village stocks that sort of thing. I’ll get you some in the morning.”

He waited as she lit the lamp and followed her along the walkway to the back of the attic.

   “It’s easier if you sit,” Jill helped him push aside an old mirror so he could join her on the floor.

   “Wow.” He picked up the oldest of the books. “This is something else.”

   “I know,” Jill listed the things each of the books contained. “I haven’t got to that one yet,” she nodded at the book in his hand.

He started to read, and she went back to studying where she’d left off.  Like Jill, Tom became absorbed in the book, and did not feel the time passing. It wasn’t until his fingers grew stiff that he stopped reading.

   “It’s freezing up here,” he said.

   “I know,” she blew on her fingers, trying to breathe life back into them.

He looked at his watch.

   “It’s after midnight,” he said, surprised the time had passed so quickly. “I better make a move.”

Jill picked up the lantern and led the way out. After sleeping late, she wasn’t tired, and planned to return to her studying once Tom left. She saw, as she passed the small attic window, the sky heavy with stars, an obvious sign of frost. As they walked down the stairs, she silently whispered a prayer for her son. She knew nothing would be gained from her weeping, and there was still a lot to learn from the books.

   She shivered at the icy blast from the front door. Bess and her pups came bounding up when they saw them appear.

   “I’d like to come back in the morning, if I may,” Tom said. “To continue reading that book, if you have no objection?”

   “No, its fine,” she said. She tried to smile, but the movement felt alien. “Then you don’t think I’m mad?”

   “I never thought so in the first place,” he assured her. “Or maybe we’re both mad and we just don’t know it.”

   “We haven’t got long, you know” she couldn’t find the words. “It’s been over thirty-six hours.”

   “I know I’ll be back at first light,” Tom said. “I need to find your son. I don’t want you to suffer as we did, and if we find him,” he corrected himself, “when we find him, I’ll know what happened to Rachael.”

After refilling the dogs’ bowls and watching them eat, Jill locked them in the outbuilding. There was the usual protest from Bess, but she ignored this.

   The whole yard seemed to sparkle under the light of the moon. Frost glistened on the walls and turned the moss and cobwebs to something magical. After locking the front door, Jill filled a glass with water and carried it back up into the attic. It was a long time till dawn, and she knew, despite the cold, the excitement she felt when reading the books, would keep her awake. Closing her eyes, she reached out to her son and whispered.

   “Don’t be afraid, Toby, I’m coming to get you, and I’m not alone.”

The Wraith-chapter twenty

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on April 23, 2020
Posted in: books, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Halloween, Haunted Houses, horror, insomnia, letting go, monsters, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, twlight, Witchcraft, Witches, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

         The sound of the front door slamming resounded throughout the house. Jill sat at the top of the stairs with Bess by her side listening to the cars drive away. She stayed in her room until she heard the last of her relatives leave. There was no need for goodbyes after her outburst, and she did not want to see her father’s look of disappointment again. No doubt her mother would have had plenty to say on the matter, but the truth was Jill felt she could no longer control her temper. Listening to Joe whispering to his new girlfriend was the last straw, and she was still shaking, not just from temper, but because of his callousness when it came to his son. Christ, I’m such a fool, she thought, burying her face in Bess’s coat.

  She stayed like that for a while, too tired to move, but more relaxed now that the house was empty. The clock in the hall ticked away the minutes, and all around her the old house sighed and settled for the night. It was the smell from the kitchen that finally roused her, and she ran down to stairs. Slipping her feet into the slippers she had earlier discarded; she went into the kitchen and swung the arm that held the cauldron away from the fire. The potatoes had boiled dry, and all that remained was a mushy black pile. The stench was disgusting, so she carried the cauldron out to the yard, tripping over the pups in her haste. She was sweating from the weight of her load, and once the steaming pile was emptied onto the grass in the orchard, she dropped the heavy cauldron. The pups sniffed at the debris and drew back when they realised it was hot. Jill sank down onto the small bench to breathe in the frosty night air. The stars seemed brighter than ever in the frosty sky and she looked up at them wondering if somewhere her son could see them too.

   “Please,” she whispered to the heavens. “Don’t let them hurt my child.”

She was crying again, big racking sobs that shook her body, until she was forced to bend in two to stop the pain.

   “Jill,” the voice startled her. “Are you, all right?”

Paul put his arm around her waist and helped her stand.

   “You’ll get your death out here,” he said, and started to lead her towards the house, and she didn’t struggle, too weak to offer any resistance.

Once inside, he sat her in a chair by the sitting room fire. The bottle of whisky stood on a side table. The cap was off indicating her father’s swift exit and she felt her cheeks flame when she thought how cruel her behaviour was towards him. Wiping her eyes, she looked at Paul.

   “I suppose my parents have been to see you,” she said, not waiting for his reply. “I suppose they told you that I’ve lost it?”

   “Something of the sort.” He stood and walked over to the whiskey and poured a generous measure.

   “I thought you were staying off that?”

   “It’s not for me,” he said, and handed her the glass.

Feeling ever more of a bitch than ever, she sipped at the amber liquid.

   “Do you want to talk?”

   “What about?” She felt the rage return. “Why I threw them out of my house?”

   “That, and anything else that’s bothering you.”

   “Anything else bothering me,” she looked at him in dismay. “Well, why not. Where should I begin? Perhaps, I’m a little bit upset my son is missing, that in about six more hours you, and everyone else will give up on him. Don’t try to fob me off with some stupid explanation. I know once the first thirty-six hours is up, you will wind down the search. It’s not rocket science; I also know after that you’ll be looking for a body.”

   “Stop,” Paul held up his hand to try and stem the flow of her anger. “You’re imagining things. There is no way I’ll give up.”

   “You did before.”

Her words stung. He turned away and studied the dying embers of the fire. Jill stayed silent, aware of how much her words hurt him.

   “They were different times,” he said. “Now, there is nothing to stop me.”

   “So, you say.”

She would have smacked herself if she could, but the anger refused to remain quiet. Paul shook his head and stood up.

   “I’ll find your son if it’s the last thing I do,” he said, before walking away.

Once again, she heard the front door slam. She was crying now, not just for her terrible loss, but for the words that wounded her only ally.

   Outside in the yard, Bess barked for her attention, and Jill went to answer the call. It had grown darker still, the moon hidden behind the clouds, and the world was in shadow. The pups were nowhere to be seen, and she knew they were probably still inspecting the potato mound in the orchard. She would have no choice, but to lock them in to the outbuilding for the night. It was impossible to control them now that Toby was not there, and while she would miss the company of their mother, it was just another thing she would have to bear. The cold cut through the sleeves of her jacket, and she felt frost particles in her hair. A chill wind skimmed across the fields, disturbing the branches of the apple trees, and causing the leafless bushes to tremble at its touch. She never felt so alone and frightened in her life.

   It was quite a job to get the pups back inside, and even Bess protested being locked in, but it was too cold to leave the pups alone. They needed the warmth of their mother on such a night. Jill ignored her scratching on the door and knew she would settle down once the light in the yard was turned off. The house still stank of burned potatoes, and only then she remembered the cauldron. Let the frost do its worst, she thought, it may even make it easier to clean.

   Stripping off her jacket, she went into the kitchen and stood in front of the fire. Aware for the first time of how numb her feet were, she looked down and was surprised to see she was still wearing her ratty old slippers. Kicking them off, her socks were soaked through, so she sat down and pulled them off. Colder than ever now, she threw the packets of ham that still lay on the table, back in the fridge and went to lock the front door. The climb up the stairs took forever as she pulled herself up by the banister. Weary in both mind and body, she was still anxious to get on with learning what secrets the attic might hold. First, she would lie down for a while, and hopefully the heat from the quilt would help to thaw her frozen body. She would have slept in her clothes, if the ends of her jeans were not wet with frost. She slipped them off and still wearing her jumper, got in bed.

   Just a few minutes rest, she promised herself and then I’ll get going again. The warmth of the bed covers soothe her, and she no longer cared about the creaking and groans of the old house as she closed her eyes.

          The light from the window woke her. She was too tired to pull the curtains closed, and the watery sunlight streamed into the room. Springing up in the bed, she looked over at the clock, and saw to her dismay it was approaching noon. How in the name of God did I sleep so long, she wondered, feeling guilty she should have done so when her child was missing? Pulling on the same jeans she had worn the day before; she ran down the stairs and slipped into her boots. The answering machine showed she had fourteen missed calls, and she hadn’t even heard the phone ring! Deciding they could wait, she hurried out to the yard, and to the outbuilding that held the dogs. Bess’s look of reproach when she opened the door was hard to miss, but the pups bounded out and ran off to play.

   “Sorry,” Jill apologised to the dog. “I slept late.”

She just finished setting out their food bowls, when she heard a car approach. Paul looked as haggard as he had the night before. He was obviously he hadn’t slept and she felt the familiar guilt return, as she remembered her spiteful words and the hours she had managed to sleep.

   “Listen,” she walked over to the car. “I want to say how sorry I am about last night.”

   “No, need, we’re both tired,” he forced a smile.

   “I suppose there’s no news?”

She knew by the look on his face there wasn’t, but she had to ask.

   “Would you like something to eat?” she asked. “I was about to do something for myself, and I hate eating alone.”

   “That would be great, thanks.” He followed her into the house.

While she set about preparing the food, he checked the messages on the answering machine. This was at Jill’s request, as she did not want to have to listen to her mother berating her so early in the day.

   “Just the usual reporters,” he came back and sat at the table. “It’s lucky this farm is in such a remote area, otherwise they would have found you by now.”

   “Yes,” Jill agreed. “I’m surprised they’re not camping on my doorstep.”

   “I told everyone in the village not to give them directions, but God knows how long that will last. There is always some busybody who wants their fifteen minutes of fame.”

   “Let’s be thankful for small mercies then,” Jill said, as she placed the plate of ham and egg in front of him.

   “There were a few messages from you mother, but I’m sure you were expecting them.”

   “Yes,” Jill sat down opposite him. “I suppose she sends her love?”

   “Something like that,” he smiled.

As they ate, she wondered about telling him about her grandmother, and the books that might lie hidden in the attic. She tried to concentrate as he outlined what was done in the search, and his plans for the rest of the day. Finally, he asked. “Are you listening to me?”

She bit down on her lip and winced as the cut she had made the night before reopened.

   “Here,” he handed her a handkerchief. “Use this.”

   “Thanks,” she dabbed at the spot of blood.

   “There’s something on you mind,” he said, and then quickly added. “besides Toby, I mean?”

   “If I tell you, you’ll think I’m mad.”

   “Mmm, I’m already leaning that way,” he said, trying to make light of it. “So, go on, tell me.”

He sipped his tea and listened as she told him all about her grandmother, and the power she predicted would one day come to Jill’s aid.  When she finished, she asked.

   “Do you think it’s possible if I find the books she spoke about, they could help me find Toby?”

She held her breath, as she waited for his answer.

   “It’s a bit far-fetched,” he said. “This is the twenty-first century.”

   “I knew you’d say that,” Jill said.

   “Still, it couldn’t do any harm,” he raised an eyebrow when she looked up hopefully. “I mean, there are still a lot of old women around here who believe in such things.”

   “Really?”

   “You can’t imagine the number of times I’ve been called out to view a nest of eggs in someone’s field. They still practise piseogs, you’d have heard of them, no doubt?”

   “Yes,” Jill remembered her grandmother telling her about these so-called spells. Meant to do harm, the crops would rot, it was said, along with the eggs.

This was a terrifying thing to do to those who still believed.

   “My grandmother said anyone who did something like that was evil,” Jill said. “She always said it worked because the persons believed it would and chose to neglect the land.”

   “Well, it’s still going on.”

   “Hard to believe, isn’t it?” For a moment, she felt quite stupid for thinking she could achieve anything by magic.

   “As they say, stranger things have happened.” Paul got up and pulled on his coat.

   “So, you think there’s no harm in researching it?”

   “Why not?”

Jill knew what he was thinking if it kept her occupied, then it was worth leaving her to it.

   “I’ll call back this evening,” he assured her. “And maybe, we’ll have some news by then.”

   “Thanks,” she walked out to the yard with him.

The pups lay warming themselves in the last rays of the dying sun. Although it was just a little after one in the day, the autumn dusk was already on its way.

   “He’s not dead, you know?” Jill said.

   “I know, he’s not.” Paul was about to climb into his car, but he stopped and looked at her. “We’re going to find him, one way or the other.”

The pups followed the car to the gate, barking and running beside it. Jill closed the gate and watched until the car was out of sight. The pups ran off once their prey vanished, in search of something else to chase. So, it was just Bess that followed her back into the house and up the stairs to the attic.

The Wraith- chapter nineteen

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on April 22, 2020
Posted in: books, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Haunted Houses, horror, insomnia, letting go, memories, monsters, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, sleeplessness, twlight, Witchcraft, Witches, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

         There was no one about when Paul dropped her off that afternoon. The yard was deserted. She was glad of this, as she was anxious to begin her search of the attic. But that had to be put on hold for a while, as the urgent barking of the dogs meant she had to feed them first.

   “Whoa,” she laughed, despite her worry, as the three bundles of fur surged through the outbuilding door.

The pups jumped up on her legs, and she knew without the barrier of the denim jeans, she would have been badly scratched. Bess tried to get her unruly pups in some order, but they were restless after so many hours of being cooped up and didn’t wait until they were fed.

   “Where are they gone?” Jill asked, as she placed the three-full bowls on the ground.

Bess looked towards the orchard and the odd flash of black and white could be seen darting through the trees. She sniffed at her food, not hungry, and just as anxious as her mistress.

   “There’s nothing yet,” Jill knelt beside her and stroked the soft fur of her coat.

Bess groaned, the sound echoing Jill’s own thoughts.

   “I know, girl,” Jill said, but I have another idea that might help.”

The pups, drawn by the scent of the food, came running and she left them to continue their feasting. Bess followed her as she walked into the house. Jill heard the television in the sitting room, and she peeped inside. Her mother was asleep in one of the armchairs. She was glad she did not have to answer any questions and could go up to the attic without being seen.

   “Not a sound,” she whispered to the dog.

Taking off her boots, she placed them at the side of the coat rack and tip-toed up the stairs. The attic would be freezing now, and she chose to leave on her jacket. Bess was right behind her, so close Jill felt her warm breath on her heels.

   The stairs to the attic creaked. Jill winced and listened a moment, to make sure the sound didn’t rouse her mother. When she was certain it had not, she continued her climb. The old oil lamp sat in the same spot, on top of one of the trunks. A gas lighter had long ago replaced the box of matches and it sat beside the lamp’s round metal base. Flicking the wheel, Jill lifted the glass dome and held the flame against the wick. It sizzled as it caught fire and she watched a small shower of sparks leap from the dry linen, before replacing the glass. As in the past, the lamp lit just the first few yards of the room and she was forced to hold it higher to see what lay beyond the familiar trunks. She had to put it down a few times, to clear away the various boxes and bits of furniture that blocked the walkway, as she descended deeper into the gloom. Any other time she would have stopped and investigated various curios she came across, but for now these were pushed aside as her search continued. Though she had no idea what she was looking for, other than the books her mother had spoken of, she allowed her nose to lead her as the scent of the dried herbs and roots urged her closer.

   A large, black chest stood at the very back of the attic. It was bigger and more impressive than any of the others and Jill knew, when she touched the strong lock that held it closed, this one would not yield as easily. Despite the great age of the trunk, the lock was relatively new. Holding the lamp higher, she searched along the lid and around the sides for a key, but there was none to be found. The darker corners of the room may have held the answer, but even the light from the lamp did not reach these places, and she didn’t want to forage with her fingers. There were mice there, she knew from Bess’s darting glances into the shadows, and others thing more frightening, spiders. She shuddered at the thought, great, hairy hump-backed spiders grown fat and content in the quiet of the attic.

   There was no other choice, but to ask her father or Joe to jimmy the lock. Sighing, she sat against the trunk and looked down at the dog that stood waiting.

   “I can’t open it, Bess,” the eyes that stared back at her seemed huge in the glow from the lamp. “We’ll have to wait until the men get back. I haven’t a hope of breaking it open.”

The light outside the small window faded and she knew it would soon be dark. They would be calling off the search and Toby would be all alone for another night. She knew her son was alive; she could feel it way down inside, something primeval told her.

   “Jill, are you up there?”

The sound of her mother’s voice echoed up the stairs.

   “Yes, I’m coming down,” she made her way to the attic door, blew out the lamp and placed in back in its usual place.

Bess scurried past her, glad to be free of the dusty, dark room.

   “I see that dog got in again,” her mother tutted, when she came down on to the landing.

   “Bess is all right,” Jill did not want to get into another argument. “She has been company for me over the last few months.”

   “Yes,” she sniffed and eyed the dog, suspiciously. “You know I’ve never liked dogs.”

Or cats, Jill thought, or hamsters, pet mice and even birds. Luckily her mother had no idea what she was thinking and continued.

   “Your father and the others are on the way home. They’ll need something to eat.”

Her meaning was clear, yes, they would need feeding, but she had no intention of being the one who supplied the food.

   “I’ll get started in the kitchen,” Jill swept past her and down the stairs.

She was peeling potatoes when the excited yelps of the pups heralded the arrival of the cars in the yard. Her father was the first to enter and he walked to where she stood and kissed her forehead.

   “No news, girl,” he said, his eyes filled with sadness.

   “I know, Dad,” she went back to her work as the voices of her relatives started up in the hall.

   “All right,” Joe asked, and she nodded.

   “The dinner will take an hour, so if you want to have a wash,” she said, lost for words.

It’s strange, she thought, once he had left the room, how I no longer care about him. In the past, she imagined what she would say to him when they met, what she would have liked to say to him, that is, but her anger was replaced by a quiet acceptance that what they had was now gone and would never return. Thinking it wiser to inform her aunts and cousins about the delay in the dinner, she pushed open the door of the sitting room. She found them gathered around the fire and whispering with her mother. There was no need to guess what they were saying, as they all looked up startled when she entered. After making her excuses, she was about to leave the room when her father came up behind her. He had changed out of his damp clothes and was now in a better frame of mind.

   “Why don’t you leave the cooking, girl?” he asked. “We can get a takeaway from the village.”

   “No, Dad, it’s fine,” Jill smiled at him. “I’ve already started.”

   “Yes,” her mother called. “Leave her alone. The work will take her mind off her troubles.”

   “What can you do?” Her father asked, shrugging his shoulders.

   “I know, Dad,” she patted his hand. “Take no notice. Go in and sit by the fire. I’ll call you when the dinner is ready.”

   “Can I not help out,” he asked. “Set the table or something?”

   “No, it’s fine. There’s some whisky in the press beside the fire. Try to relax and have a rest.”

She was glad he didn’t push the subject any further, as the quiet of the kitchen helped her think. Once the potatoes were put on to boil, she searched the fridge for something to go with them. The only thing available was the cooked ham she bought for Toby’s lunch. Trying not to cry, she pulled the packets out and threw them onto the table. A large bowl of eggs sat on top of the dresser. These were a gift from a grateful patient, but neither of the doctors had any need for them, so they passed them on to Jill. She would use them along with the ham and potatoes. As she picked up the bowl, her eyes were drawn to the old photograph of her grandmother.

   “What am I going to do, Nana?” she asked, looking for answers in the kind face.

She had no other choice than to use to old gas cooker to fry the eggs, as the blaze from the fire was too high for the frying pan. The water in the old black cauldron was already bubbling; such was the intense heat from the flames. She always thought of her grandmother’s old cookware in this way, the three-legged, old pots did look like a witch’s cauldrons. Something stirred in her brain, a memory struggled to the surface and she spun around and pulled open one of the dresser drawers. A bunch of keys lay nestled among an assortment of legal documents and household bills. These were handed over to her by her grandmother’s solicitors. Of course, she thought, wrapping her hand around the cold metal ring. The key to the locked trunk would be on this.

   Prodding the potatoes with a sharp knife, she made sure she still had enough time to run back up to the attic.

   “Stay there,” she warned Bess, who made ready to move. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

The door to the sitting room was closed, so there was no one to hear her. Kicking off the old ragged slippers she wore, she tip-toed up. The door to Joe’s room was ajar and she heard the low mumble of his voice when she reached the landing. Edging closer, holding her breathe in case he should hear, she tried to find out what he was saying.

   “I can’t leave now,” he said, speaking with someone on his mobile. “I know, I know, I miss you too.”

Jill bit down hard on her bottom lip. Their son was missing, and all that bastard could think about was his new girlfriend. Her mouth stung, and she tasted the sweet coppery blood from her lip. All the pain and impotence she felt surged to the surface and she threw the door to his room open. When he saw the look on her face, Joe said a hasty goodbye and hung up.

   “Get out,” Jill shrieked. “Now.”

   “Wait, I can explain,” he started to move towards her.

   “Get your things and get out,” she was shaking from temper.

   “It’s not what you think,” he pleaded. “Just let me explain.”

The row had reached the room below, and the thundering on the stairs meant that the others were on their way.

   “What’s going on here?” Her mother demanded.

   “Keep out of this, mother,” Jill hissed.

   “She won’t let me explain,” Joe looked over her shoulder at the assortment of women who stood waiting.

   “He was talking to his new girlfriend,” Jill managed to say. “And I told him to leave.”

   “Really, Jill,” her mother’s cultured tone only served to enrage her further. “You can’t expect him to go, not now.”

Jill had no idea of how she looked, as she spun around, but her mother reaction said it all. Turning back to Joe, she asked.

   “Are you going to leave, or do I have to put you out?”

   “If you’d let me explain,” his voice was beginning to annoy her.

What she had heard only served to prove her suspicions were right. She had known, deep down, there was someone else. Joe was too needy to go without the creature comforts only a woman could provide, and he would not have left them unless he had someone else lined up. The idea of what a fool she’d been made her laugh. He frowned at the sound and looked at her mother for support.

    “Are you going to leave?” Jill asked for the last time.

When he made no move to do so, her grip tightened on the key ring and she swung. There were over ten large keys on the ring and their weight alone sent him staggering back onto the bed.

   “Christ,” he brought a hand to his face. “You fuckin’ bitch.”

   “Do I have to tell you again?” Jill raised the ring and turning to her assorted family. “I want all of you out. Now.”

Her mother, aunts and cousins spared no time in running to pack. Only her father stayed framed in the doorway and she tried to ignore his look of disappointment.

   “Sorry, Dad,” Jill tried not to cry. “But I want you to go as well.”

He nodded and walked away. She had overstepped the mark, Jill knew. While she never intended to hurt her father, she had work to do. Work that demanded she not be disturbed.

The Wraith-chapter seventeen

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on April 20, 2020
Posted in: Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Halloween, Haunted Houses, horror, insomnia, monsters, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, twlight, Witchcraft, Witches, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

The drive to the next village only took half an hour, but to Jill’s tortured soul it seemed like forever before she pulled into the estate named in the newspaper. The article had not given a house number, and there was no way of telling which house he lived in. The small housing estate was well kept with the usual hanging baskets outside, drab now that the frost had done its worst, but it was easy to imagine how bright they looked in full bloom.

   She drove around a while, gliding from one avenue to another in search of a sign. Perhaps, she imagined an event such as the one witnessed within the house, had left a mark, some outward scar easy to recognise or a memory plaque. Deciding it was wiser to wait and see if Paul arrived, she steered the car back towards the entrance to the estate and pulled up at the curb. It was still two days before Halloween, but children ran by dressed in multi-coloured costumes of goblins, ghouls and various ghosts.  A witch stopped and shook a broomstick at her, and the act that once couldn’t have failed to raise a smile, seemed threatening. A movement on her right made her turn, and to her relief she came face to face with Paul, who pulled up alongside her. His face was grey from exhaustion and she could tell by the way he looked at her, that he was not pleased.

The wind whipped her coat around her when she got out of the car and she shivered at its touch. Paul parked in front of her, and she walked over and climbed into the passenger seat.

   “Don’t you think he’s suffered enough?”

For a moment, she was lost for words.

   “I thought he might remember something, some little clue overlooked at the time.”

   “The man is in bits,” he rubbed at his forehead. “This is the last thing he needs.”

   “Do you really think I’d be bother him, if I wasn’t desperate?”

. Her throat felt dry and she wrung her fingers together until they hurt.

   Sighing, Paul turned on the ignition. The car had already started to steam up, and they sat in silence waiting for the windows to clear. Still unsure of what might happen, he pulled away from the curb, and drove deeper into the estate. The house they pulled in front looked devoid of life. Unlike the other houses no garish pumpkin lights or cardboard ghosts welcomed the season, just one lone, unlit candle in the window to light the way for the lost souls. Although it was only midmorning, the sky was grey and gloomy. There was something about this time of year Jill thought, that sets the mind wandering to darker things.

   “I told him you were coming.”

Jill looked at Paul in dismay.

   “It was only fair,” he shrugged. “The last thing he needs is a hysterical woman turning up on his doorstep.”

   “I am not hysterical,” she said, through gritted teeth.

Deciding it wiser not to antagonise him, she steered the conversation another way, as they walked up the path.

   “Does he work?”

   “He works,” Paul said, as he pushed the bell. “He takes this week off. It’s the anniversary of his wife’s death.”

Before she could say anything more the door opened, and Paul held out his hand. He stepped inside, and looked back, motioning her to follow. She could just make out the shape of Rachael’s father, as he led them into the sitting room. Like the hallway, this room was gloomy and wreathed in shadow. The whole house seemed to lie under a cloak, as though the very sunlight avoided this place, unsure of its welcome.

   Paul’s voice roused her as he introduced their host. Jill was face to face with the man who could empathise with her suffering.

   “I’m so sorry,” he said, reaching for her hand.

The fingers that clasped hers were cold, and held on a little longer than necessary, as though hoping to draw some warmth from her touch.

   “Thank you,” she said, allowing her hand to slip from his, and took the seat offered.

He sat on the chair beside her, so she watched him from the corner of her eye. As Paul spoke, bringing him up to speed on what had happened, and explaining the reason they were there, she studied the man. He was in his late thirties, she knew from reading the paper, but he seemed older. His shoulders were hunched, as though weighed down by the terrible burden he bore. The skin on his face stretched across the bones, causing deep hollows in his cheeks. The light had faded from his eyes and was replaced with a dullness that made her think of the death of the spirit. A small cut marked his chin, left there no doubt, by a blunt blade. Despite his terrible loss, this signalled he still managed to function, and the realisation that this might one day be her, caused the tears that were threatening, to overflow.

   “I’m sorry,” she said, as she tried to cover her face, so they did not witness the onslaught, but they were both beside her in an instant.

   “There now,” Paul patted her back, while Tom, Rachael’s father, ran to pour her some brandy.

   “Try and drink a little,” he held the glass to her lips, and she sipped.

The shock of the fiery alcohol made her gasp, but it warmed her, and she was able to stop sobbing.

   “I didn’t mean upset you,” she looked at Tom. “I thought you might remember something that was overlooked.” She wiped her nose in the handkerchief Paul had given her.

   “Don’t apologise,” Tom smiled, and when he did, a small light came back to his eyes. “I would do the same, if I were in your position. I have been racking my brains since Paul rang. There isn’t a day that goes by I don’t think about what happened, but there’s nothing I can recall that might help you. I wasn’t there when Rachael disappeared. I suppose you know the story?”

   “Only what I read in some old newspapers I found in my grandmother’s house,” Jill sniffed. “And I looked up some of the articles in the library.”

   “It’s nine years since I last saw my daughter,” He seemed to be thinking out loud. “And it’s eight years ago that I lost my wife.”

Jill looked at Paul, unsure what to say, but he shook his head, warning her to be quiet.

   “Jill’s son, Toby, has been missing since yesterday and we’ve been searching non-stop,” Paul said.

   “He’s not around here.” Tom’s words chilled her. “Whoever took him is organised, knows how to cover his tracks. I’ve been researching them ever since Rachael went missing.”

   “I was only fifteen minutes late,” Jill dabbed at her eyes. “I had a flat tire.”

   “It wouldn’t have mattered; your son was marked by whoever took him. If your check the tire, I’ll bet you’ll find a nail, or something placed there deliberately.”

   “Do you really think so?”

   “I’ll have the spare tire checked,” Paul promised, and left the room to make the call.

Once they were alone, Jill tried to smile at Tom through her tears.

   “This is a terrible time for you,” he said. “And I wish to God I could say it’ll get better.”

   “Tell me about Rachael,” Jill wanted to change the subject. “What was she like?”

   “Oh, a bundle of fun, but very determined,” he smiled again at the memory. “It was like trying to control a whirlwind, Marie always said. She was feisty, always sticking up for herself. We used to joke that in olden times she would have been a warrior.”

She knew he was speaking about his wife, and her eyes strayed to the collection of framed photographs on the side table. In one, a woman she took to be Marie was cuddling a blond, bright-eyed little girl, who was the image of her mother. She recognised Rachael from all the photos in the newspapers. Tom caught her looking, picked up the frame and handed it to her.

   “They were like two peas in a pod, everyone said. More like friends than mother and daughter. Always discussing clothes and the latest accessories, despite Rachael being just a baby in my eyes. She loved all the girlie things, ribbons, hair clips, that sort of stuff.”

   “What happened that day,” Jill ran her fingers over the smiling faces in the picture.

   “It was dinner time. I was due home from work and Marie was getting the meal ready. The ice cream van came into the estate, and you know how those chimes call to the children. I used to think at the time he was like the Pied Piper. Well, even though it was time to eat, Rachael begged her mother for money for an ice cream, and we could never resist those big blue eyes.”

   “Yes,” Jill smiled down at the photograph. “I can see why.”

   “That was it really,” he sighed. “She ran out the door and was never seen again. They even tried to blame me at first. The father it seems, is always under suspicion. At least, you will be spared that, being a woman, I mean.”

   “So, I have something to be grateful for?”

   “No, no, of course not,” he placed a hand on her arm. “I just meant you won’t have to go through that. Forgive me?”

   “Yes, I’m sorry, it’s my fault,” Jill said. “I’m a bit sensitive now. I keep imagining what they are doing to my child and I…”

The rest of the sentence was lost in a fit of weeping.

   “I know, I know,” Tom’s grip tightened. “I never stop thinking about it, but now I wonder where she is, and pray one day I will find her and bring her home; if only to lie beside her mother.”

   When Paul came back to the room, they were deep in conversation, and he waited until there was a lull to speak.

   “One of the lads is taking your car in for inspection,” he held out his hand for the keys. “I’ll drive you home.”

   “Any news?” Jill asked.

   “Nothing, I’m afraid,” he looked from one to the other.

When he had left to answer the ringing of the doorbell, Tom turned to her.

   “I don’t want you to give up hope, but they’ll never catch them, not the way they’re working.”

   “Then what can I do to help?”

   “Pray for a miracle,” he stood up. “In the meantime, I’m going to join in the search. It’s no good sitting around feeling sorry for myself when your son has a chance.”

   “You think he has a chance?”

   “I don’t know, it’s a feeling,” he brought his hand to his stomach. “Something tells me a miracle is possible.”

He walked into the hall and took his coat off a peg.

   “I’ll be joining you,” he told a bemused Paul.

   “Great,” Paul nodded at Jill, as she stood.

The afternoon was raw with frost when they stepped outside. Jill shivered. She had kept her coat on inside the house, and now it offered little protection from the cold.

   “I’ll follow in my car,” Tom said.

   “Right. We have an incident room set up at the school,” Paul informed him. “If you go there first, they’ll tell you what to do.”

   “Fine. Keep in touch,” Tom said to Jill.

   “Thanks, I will,” she nodded, before walking away.

As she stepped outside the gate, a gang of monsters, clutching bags of sweets, ran screaming past and the sound of their excited cries made her draw back in fear.

   “Come on,” Paul took her arm and led her to the car. “We’ll have to contend with that for the next few days, firecrackers, bangers and rotten eggs.”

   “It’s only a bit of fun,” Jill said.

   “Yeah, burnt fingers and nuisance calls from people saying their house has been egged.”

He looked across at her as she raised her eyebrows.

   “I know, I know,” he laughed. “I’m soooo old.”

It was strange to hear him laugh and it felt good, despite her worries. Something had happened in that sad house, something said that made her feel all was not lost. As they headed back along the dark roads leading to home, her spirits rose when she thought of the attic and the books lying in wait. Tom was right; they would not find Toby, but not their way. It was up to her now, and she would use the knowledge of her ancestors to find her son. Looking up at the sky and the dark clouds that scurried past, she saw in them the shape of the women who had gone before, hurrying to join in her search.

The Wraith- Chapter sixteen

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on April 19, 2020
Posted in: books, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Halloween, horror, insomnia, letting go, monsters, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, Witchcraft, Witches, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

“Toby,” Jill’s scream caused her mother to drop the cup she was holding, and the crash mingled with the dying cry. Overcome with exhaustion, Jill had fallen asleep in the chair by the fire, and it was the sound of Toby’s voice that woke her.

   “My God,” her mother, always the drama queen, brought a hand to her heart and feigned severe shock.

They were alone in the kitchen. Her father, Joe and the others had gone to join in the search.

   “What time is it?” She chose to ignore her mother’s theatrics.

   “A little after nine,” she bent to scoop the fallen china into a dustpan. “I thought it wiser to let you sleep. There’s no news yet. I was talking to your father a few minutes ago.”

   “I heard, Toby,” she looked up at her mother in dismay. “He called me, said he was in a cold, dark room.”

   “Really,” her mother sniffed and walked to the bin.

   “Yes, mother, really.” She didn’t mean to sound so cross, but her mother had a way of winding her up. “Why is it so hard for you to believe I might have heard him?”

   “I had to put up with that sort of thing all my life,” her mother sat at the table. “Your grandmother was always predicting things. I had nightmares imagining the sort of oddities she had stored in the attic.”

   “What sort of things?”

   “Oh, God knows,” she sighed. “All manner of stuff; from bits of bog oak to books and herbs. It still has that strange, musky smell, don’t you think? The attic, I mean. I never liked the place, and we avoided it as children. That’s why I never understood your fascination with it.”

   “It was just a place to play at dress up and explore,” Jill said.

   “A place to fill your head with her nonsense more like,” her mother replied. “I don’t know how many times I caught her reading to you from those awful books. Do you remember the summer I refused to let you come here?”

Jill shook her head.

   “Well, you were very young, and I warned her what would happen if she continued with her nonsense. It really was the last straw, taking you in to the woods at night! The shock of not having you visit that summer taught her a lesson.”

Jill got up and joined her at the table.

   “What happened?” She asked.

   “Oh, she promised that there would be no more of her so-called “teachings”, and I allowed you to resume your visits.”

Jill looked at her mother in wonder. How could she have been so cruel as to deprive them both the highlight of their year?

   “I know what you’re thinking.” Her mother made a great show of brushing some crumbs into the palm of her hand. “But your grandmother was starting to get a bit peculiar at that stage, and I only wanted what was best for both of you.”

   “Is it not possible she was right, that she had second sight or whatever you want to call it?”

   “Oh, her predictions came true, no doubt of that, but it was mostly guess work. Anyway, she never shared any of her secrets with us. We didn’t have the power or the mark,” she reached across and pulled back the collar of Jill’s blouse, exposing the crescent shape. “So, there you have it.”

Was that it, Jill wondered? Was it jealousy that made her mother and aunts treat her with such disdain? Managing to keep her tone low and even, she asked.

   “Why did Nana think she had powers?”

   “I see you avoided the history lesson,” her mother sneered. “It seems one of our ancestors was burned as a witch.”

   “What,” Jill gasped. “You can’t be serious?”

   “It’s true; I checked it out for myself when I was older. I suppose I wanted to rub it in her face, show that her stories were fairy tales made up to make her life seem more thrilling than it was, but she was right. It happened in the sixteenth century, and it was the only thing of note that ever happened to this family.”

   “A witch,” Jill shook her head in wonder.

   “Yes, a witch,” her mother sighed. “That’s why she never had electricity installed in the attic. She said there were books up there that were hundreds of years old and best kept in the dark. Honestly, can you believe it?”

   “I don’t know,” Jill said. “I don’t know what to believe.”

   “Don’t go getting ideas in your head,” her mother warned. “Your grandmother was a dreamer like you, and no doubt, she managed to fill your head with her nonsense, but that’s all it is, nonsense.”

   “The woman they burned, she was just a healer, right?”

   “Probably just some misguided soul, who imagined she had power.”

The ringing of the telephone roused them, and Jill waited as her mother went to answer it.

   “Just some reporter,” she shrugged, when she came back. “I told him you were too upset to speak to anyone.”

   “Thank you.”

   “Why don’t you have a wash,” her mother suggested. “The kettle is boiled.”

Wrapping a cloth around the handle, she carried the black pot over to the table and set it down beside her daughter.

   “Thanks, I’ll do that.” The old kettle weighed a ton, and her arm ached as she carried it up the stairs.

In a house with no heating system, taking a bath was a major event, so she had come to rely on washing in the sink. Pushing the stopper in place, she turned on the cold tap and poured the hot water. Using her finger as a gauge, she got it to the right temperature and was glad to put the kettle down on the wood floor beside her. Stripping off her sweat-soaked clothes, she stopped for a moment to stare at her face in the hazy mirror above the sink. Dark circles were beginning to form beneath her eyes and added to the pallor of her skin. They made her look ghostly. Sighing, she picked up the washcloth and soap that lay waiting and plunged them into the water. She shivered, despite the warmth, as she washed her upper body, then balancing on the edge of the old bath managed to wash her feet.

Peeping through the door, she made sure her mother was not about, before running across the hall to her room. With only the bunched-up clothes she discarded to hide her shame, she didn’t want to run into her mother and listen to her sighs of disapproval. For the first time, she turned the key in the lock. Throwing the sweaty clothes into the wash basket, she went in search of clean ones. Her wardrobe now consisted mainly of jeans and jumpers. There was very little reason to dress up, and the sturdiness of the clothes she chose was more suitable for farm work. The only concession was the business suit and an assortment of blouses she had not stored away in the attic.

   Looking up at the ceiling, she thought of her mother’s words, and wondered what secrets the room held. Weary from lack of sleep and worry about her son, she sank down on the bed and pulled on her jeans.

   “I’m tired, Nana,” she whispered, and put her head in her hands. “And I’m so frightened.”

   It was either lack of food or sleep that caused the dizziness in her head and she moaned and curled into a ball in the centre of the bed. Without realising it, she was crying again, and she clutched at the quilt as her body shook from sheer terror. A soft breeze ruffled her hair, its touch like the hand of a loved one and she heard for the first time the voice that was lost to her.

   “You will find your greatest ally among the dead.”

   “Nana,” she shot up in the bed and looked around the room.

No one there; the only sound was the shrill, constant ringing of the telephone in the hall below. But she had heard it, her grandmother’s voice telling her what to do. She was too caught up in her own nightmare to even think about being afraid, and then why should she be? Her grandmother loved her, and she knew in that moment love could survive the grave. Still, the words made little sense and she moved to the edge of the bed and stared at the wall. The pattern of flowers on the old wallpaper blended and merged before her tired eyes and she shook her head to clear it.

   “Shit,” she blinked, but the movement continued, stems knotting together to form words.

Easing her way up, she walked tentatively across the room and placed her hand against the wall. The pattern was the same as it had always been, but between the buds and stems a single word had formed. “Sentinel,” she whispered the name, and strained her eyes further searching for a clue, but even that had vanished, and she was left to wonder if it was all her imagination. Of course, it had to be, as there was nothing left on the wall, no matter how she squinted or approached it from a different angle. I’m going mad, she thought. That’s it; the horror is causing me to lose my mind.

   “Jill,” her mother called from the hall below.

Walking to the top of the stairs, she looked down. Her mother waved the telephone receiver at her.

   “It’s Paul O’Farrell, that detective,” she whispered. “Do you want me to say you’re busy?”

   “No, I’ll take it,” she ran down the stairs and took the phone from her mother. “Paul,” she said, and waited for his reply.

   “There’s no news yet, I’m afraid,” his voice was heavy with defeat. “I just wanted to see how you were.”

   “Is there nothing?” She started to cry; all her self-control worn away.

   “No, we questioned his classmates this morning and one or two remembers him walking along the village towards home. That’s about right, as we found his satchel at the side of the road. It looks like he got into a car.”

   “Oh, Jesus,” she sank down on to the stairs. “What are we going to do?”

She knew he was still speaking, but she heard nothing of what he said. Instead her grandmother’s words returned and the outline of the message on the wall swam before her eyes. Of course, Sentinel. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? Dropping the phone, she ran into the kitchen.

   “There was a bundle of old newspapers here,” she pointed at the table. “What have you done with them?”

   “I thought they were rubbish,” her mother said. “I put them outside in the bin.”

Jill ran out the front door and around the side of the house to where she kept the bins. The lid of the green recycling one was pushed down hard, and she pulled, praying that the papers were not torn or wet. To her relief they lay much the same as when she had first found them.

   As she walked back to the house, she heard her mother apologising to Paul for her rude behaviour. He was still holding, afraid something happened to Jill, and she took the receiver.

   “Paul, I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I just remembered something. I’ll tell you later.”

   “Fine.” He didn’t sound at all sure, but happy enough to go along if it helped ease her suffering. “I’ll ring you in an hour or so. We’ll talk then.”

   “Great, thanks,” she said, anxious to get off the phone and hung up.

   Unrolling the bundle on the kitchen table, the newspaper name leapt out at her, Sentinel. Her mother decided she was best left alone and wandered off to watch television in the other room. Jill scanned the familiar pages, using her finger as a guide. She didn’t want to chance missing out on one word and perhaps overlook a clue. There was nothing new in what she read, and her thoughts kept coming back to the photograph of Rachel’s father, as he crouched beside the grave of his wife. There was something in his face, a look she remembered from the mirror upstairs. Like hers, his face was devoid of hope.

   Her car keys lay on the worktop beside the sink and she snatched them up and went into the hall. Taking the notepad beside the phone, she scribbled down Paul’s number and the address where she was headed.

   “Will you ring this number for me?” She asked her mother. “Tell him I’m going there, and ask him to meet me, if he can,”

Before her mother could protest, Jill was out the door and in her car. As she passed the outhouses, she heard Bess’s barked protest at being locked in, but she had no time to stop. Not even certain she was on the right track she prayed Rachael’s father would know something, anything that might lead her to her son.

The Wraith-Chapter Eleven

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on April 14, 2020
Posted in: books, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Haunted Houses, horror, Paranormal, revenge, scary, sleeplessness, Witchcraft, Witches, writers. Tagged: , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

CHAPTER ELEVEN

         Jill had no recollect of screaming when she recognised the satchel, or the effect the sound had on the assembled men. It was only later that Paul O’Farrell told her about it, and about at the way his uniformed officers jumped with fright. There was much about that first day she chose to forget, and some things she would never quite manage to erase from her memory. The drive home from the school for instance was still a mystery to her, as she could not recall Paul leading her to his car. Later, when she saw her own vehicle being driven down the track to the house, she wondered about this. Had they spoke on the way there and if so, what had they talked about? Her mind was fixed on reaching the house and finding Toby waiting, but she knew even in her numbed state this would not be the case. Paul said his men were scouring the area, and she knew they had searched her small farm. If Toby was found, Paul would have known by now.

   She managed by sheer self-control to stop the tears from falling again, but the imprint from her nails was visible in the palms of her hands. Now walking through the door and confronting the small rain jacket hanging on the end of the banister and the wellington boots that lay in wait for their young owner, she broke down. She had to be helped into the kitchen and sat sobbing at the table while Paul put on the kettle. She laughed, when he placed the steaming mug in front of her with the assurance it would make her feel better. How in the name of God was a mug of tea going to make her feel better, when all she wanted to do was curl up and scream? Impotent with fear and rage, she pushed his offering aside and picked up a towel to dry her eyes.

   “What do we do next?” She asked, her voice heavy with tears.

   “We wait until we hear from my men,” he sat opposite her. “I know how frustrating this must be for you, but we have to explore all avenues. The parents the teachers were unable to reach will all be contacted, and we are doing a house to house search.”

   “How many men have you?”

He shuffled, uncomfortably in his seat.

   “Well, there’s just the four from the station now, but I’ve called for backup and they should be here by morning.”

   “Four men,” she shrieked. “Four men to cover all the roads and do the house to house.”

   She rose from her chair, and he motioned at her to sit.

   “There are only two roads in and out of the village,” he tried to placate her. “And we have volunteers working with us.”

   “And what about the hills? I heard you tell them to search the byroads and tracks. How are you going to do that?”

   “Over twenty men were checking them when I last phoned the station, and they will be hundreds more once the news gets out. People around here give their services in a crisis.”

   “It’s a pity they didn’t care enough to watch over a small boy until his mother came for him.” She knew this was not fair, but she had to vent her anger in some way.

   “Well, they can’t be blamed for that,” he said, and instantly he was aware of what he said and her reaction.

   “No,” her eyes blazed. “But I can, that’s what you’re saying isn’t it. That it’s my fault?”

   “I’m sorry,” he shook his head. “It was the wrong choice of words. I meant it’s nobody’s fault.”

   “But it is,” she was sobbing again. “It’s my fault. If I hadn’t been late none of this would have happened.”

Before he could offer any words of comfort, she ran from the room. He followed and stood listening at the bottom of the stairs as she retched into the toilet bowl. He felt like joining her, as the effects of last night’s drinking bout had not yet worn off. He rubbed his stomach, hoping to quell the burning in his gut, and popped another antacid. Still, he reasoned, it was not just the whiskey making him feel sick, but the feeling of de-ja-vu that started the moment he heard about the boy’s disappearance. He had been here before. While nine years had passed since the little girl had gone missing, the memory was still as fresh as the day it happened.

   Once again, he was forced to witness the grief of a mother at the loss of her child, but this time he would find the boy no matter what it took. In the past, he was constrained by orders from his superiors, and the certain knowledge he had a mortgage to pay and a family that depended on him. Now there was nothing to stop him from quitting the force if his hand was stayed.

Many avenues remained unexplored during the last search, and there were one or two people he had chosen to keep an eye on since that time. Now he would descend on them with all the weight his office allowed, and should the need arise, apply more say, unconventional methods to find out what he needed to know. Either way, this was one child who wouldn’t fade away once the usual media frenzy filtered out.

   “Feeling better?” He inquired, as she came down the stairs.

Cursing again his choice of words, he stood aside and waited for her to pass. From her ashen face and the black tears-tracks on her cheeks it was obvious she was feeling far from better. Still, she was more in control, and if the sudden calmness she displayed was an act, it was worthy of an Oscar. He watched as she searched around the kitchen, and when she located what she was looking for came back and stood beside him.

   “Look,” she spread the yellowing papers out on the table. “I found these when I was cleaning. My grandmother had kept them for a reason.”

His heart spasmed as he looked down at the three faces that were as familiar to him as those of his own children. This time, the nausea that threatened refused to be held back, and he managed to make it to the bathroom before vomiting. A glass of iced water waited for him when he returned to the kitchen, and he accepted it gratefully. Bile burned his throat, and he could smell the whisky’s acidic fumes on his spattered tie and shirt front.

   “I’m sorry about that,” he emptied his glass and allowed her to refill it. “It must have been something I ate.”

   “Or drank.” The smell of the alcohol was not lost on her.

   “Yeah,” he was gracious enough to blush. “I’ve been doing a lot of that of late.”

   “I hope you manage to keep off it until you find my son,” her voice broke a little, and even though she knew she sounded like a harridan, she didn’t care.

   “A drop won’t pass my lips,” he promised.

   “Good.” The small lapse of control was once again replaced by an icy calm.

   “Do you mind?” He pointed to the papers.

   “No, go ahead,” she pushed them across to him.

For a while there was silence, as he reread words still etched on his brain. He had copies of all the articles written on the disappearances, but he was still looking for some small clue that might have been overlooked. Jill heard the dogs whining. Rushing outside, she followed the sound to one of the outhouses and found Bess and her pups locked inside. One of the police officers probably did this to stop them getting under their feet, she pushed back the rusty bolt and opened the door. She was immediately engulfed in a wave of fur as the three dogs came charging towards her. The pups made straight for the house in search of their master and comrade in mischief. It was only Bess that remained behind, as though sensing something wrong. Kneeling beside her, Jill buried her face in the softness of the dog’s coat and sobbed.

   “Someone took Toby,” her tears matted the fur on Bess’s neck. “They’ve taken my baby.”

The dog’s warning growl alerted her to the movement behind her, and she had to put her hand on Bess’s collar to stop her attacking, as Paul came rushing towards her.

   “Are you all right,” he looked from Jill to the dog that was straining to break free.

   “I’m o.k.” she assured him, and then to the dog. “Down Bess, he’s a friend.”

This quieted the animal and she surveyed him, to make sure what her mistress said was true. Finally satisfied with what she sensed, she sat, and Jill let go of the collar.

   “She doesn’t usually behave like that,” Jill apologised for her pet’s behaviour. However, she was suspicious at the same time.

Bess was always so docile and had never reacted to anyone that way. She even allowed the policeman to lock her inside the outhouse without too much fuss, as she would have heard if the dog bit him. So why was she behaving like that? As if to answer her question, Paul said.

   “Animals are sensitive to their owners’ feelings. She knows something upset you and she’s trying to protect you,” he bent down and stroked Bess’s head. “Aren’t you girl?”

This time the dog’s reaction was completely different, as she wagged her tail and licked his hand. I’m just being paranoid, Jill thought.

   “Your mother rang,” he said. “I told her you would ring back.”

   “Does she know?”

   “Yes, I had one of my men ring her and the other people you had down as next of kin on Toby’s school application.”

Instead of saying anything Jill watched what Bess was doing. The dog was sniffing the ground and moving towards the main gate.

   “What’s she doing?” she asked Paul. “You don’t think she’s trying to find Toby, do you?”

   “Stranger things have happened,” he started to follow the dog, but the scent obviously ended at the gate.

   “Toby always waits for me to drive out before closing the gate,” Jill said, breathless with excitement. “We could take her to the school; she might be able to track him from there.”

   “It’s worth a try,” he agreed.

   “I’ll get the leads,” Jill started to walk back to the house. “We’ll take the pups as well.”

She stopped at the front door and looked over to where Bess was standing. The dog was watching something out in the lane, but when they walked over to where she stood neither of them saw anything.

   “What is it, girl?” Jill asked.

   “It’s probably nothing,” Paul’s eyes searched the landscape. “Just a rabbit or a rat.”

   “No,” Jill was watching the dog. “She sees something we can’t. What is it girl, is it Toby?”

In response, the dog threw back her head and howled.

The sound of the dog’s cry was still ringing in their ears as they drove towards the village. Though Paul wouldn’t admit it, the howls unnerved him. Jill became hysterical, and he had to slap her to stop her screams. To her, the dog’s reaction to the mention of her son’s name meant the dog sensed he was dead, but Paul assured her this was not the case.

   “She just realised he is lost somewhere,” he said. “You have to believe that, otherwise why would she be tracking his scent?”

It took time to calm her and now she sat beside him unmoving. The dogs, like their mistress, also sat motionless, the pups huddled against their mother, sensing her distress. Cranking the window down a little, he allowed in the sharp evening air. The smell inside the car was overpowering, and he blamed the dogs in the back seat. If Jill smelled it, she gave no sign, but stared straight ahead, not even blinking.

   His nose itched and he brought his hand up to scratch it. Only then he found the wet patch under his arms. Blushing furiously that he blamed the dogs, he vowed to wash and change the first chance he got. He promised to stay with Jill until someone from her family arrived to relieve him, and their failure to appear kept him from the case. Still, he could not leave her alone at such a time. Their one female officer was on maternity leave so her job had fallen on him. He could leave one of the junior officers with her, he mused, but decided against it, as their lack of experience in a case such as this might prove a hindrance. For now, he’d try and appease her by using the dogs to attempt to track the boy. If this failed, he’d get back to what he knew best, good old-fashioned policing. He’d try and keep downwind of her and everybody else, as he couldn’t risk anyone detecting the stench of his own fear.

Speaking with the Dead?

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on January 14, 2014
Posted in: Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic novel, Paranormal. Tagged: , , , , , , . Leave a comment

After listening to yet another story about a so called medium scamming someone out of their money, I urge you to be very careful when dealing with these people. As a writer of the Gothic novel, I love the thrill of the ghost story and sharing my imagination with my readers, but there are those who do very real harm by feeding off the suffering of those who have lost someone they love. These people do not, I repeat, Do Not, speak to the dead. There are those who will take offence at this, but to them I say, go to the James Randi Foundation and prove it. They offer a million dollars to anyone that can prove they have paranormal powers. In all the years they have offered this very tasty incentive to those who believe they have such powers, they have never found anyone who could prove it. So take the challenge or get a proper job like the rest of us.

Ghost Walk

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on October 24, 2013
Posted in: Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Death Cry, Eerie Places, Fantasy, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Halloween, Haunted Houses, Paranormal, twlight. Tagged: , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Twilight seems the favorite time for ghosts. In those last  few minutes, as day surrenders to night, they are allowed to roam. It’s understandable, when you think about it, as the sun sets and shadows deepen. They belong to this place, the land of shadow, caught between light and dark, in a world of endless night. We must pity these poor soul and leave them be. Nothing could be worse than their timeless wandering, and we must pray that our own fate never mirrors theirs.