graveyards

All posts tagged graveyards

Death Cry- chapter eighteen

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on June 16, 2020
Posted in: banshee, birdsong, hope faith God whispers heaven, books, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Death Cry, Eerie Places, Fairies, Fantasy, fiction, folklore, Ghost, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, harbinger of death, Haunted Houses, horror, Ireland's past, Irish folklore, legend, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, screams, sleeplessness, wailing cry, Witchcraft, Witches, wraiths, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The boy coughed, rubbing at his bruised throat.

   “I worked all day putting the fire out.”

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

   “He disappeared before she died.”

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

   “They fled in terror.”

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

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

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

   “She will need a Christian burial.”

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

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

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

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

   “I will make you some tea.”

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

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

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

   “You are not to blame.”

Her words startled him.

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

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

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

   “I do not understand. What happened?”

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

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

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

Pat wiped the tears from his face.

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

   “Dora?”

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

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

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

   “There was a child, a little girl…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “Where will you go?”

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

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

Death Cry-chapter six

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on May 27, 2020
Posted in: banshee, birdsong, hope faith God whispers heaven, books, Eerie Places, Fairies, Fantasy, fiction, folklore, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, harbinger of death, Haunted Houses, horror, Ireland's past, Irish folklore, legend, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, screams, wailing cry, Witches, wraiths, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Annie rubbed at her eyes and yawned. The words on the book seemed to swim, and she was too tired to make sense of them. Both day and night Meg kept her at this study. She knew her life and the life of her sisters depended on the words within the books, but she was exhausted. She longed to crawl beneath the feather quilt on Meg’s bed and sleep. The lessons continued for eight days and there was little time to rest. Meg stopped to prepare food for them, or to allow Annie to bathe and wash their soiled clothing. They ventured out only during the daylight hours and then never far from the cottage. It was a struggle to get her sisters to stay close by, and she hated having to frighten them with tales of the sickness.

Roma and her children sought them out. Worried when she had not returned to her cottage, they took the hungry Blackie, and set out in search of the girls. Within minutes of their arrival at Meg’s cottage the gloom seemed to lift. Meg and Roma recognised the power in each other and were soon chatting away like old friends. Once the children were safely out of earshot, Meg told Roma about Annie’s dream and the visit she had received from the Dark One.

   “Aye, I felt his power was strong, and I’ve been praying for you, child,” she said to Annie. “But it’ll take some doing to defeat him.”

   “Then you feel he’s stronger than before?” Meg asked.

   “I’ve never felt his anger and lust for power more intense, and I’ve travelled far and wide.”

   “It’s as I thought,” Meg sat wearily into her chair beside the fire. “He’s been gathering strength among the villagers. There are many who will fall under his spell. What hope have we, a young girl and an old woman against such might?”

   “I’ll fall in with you. Then, perhaps, together we can defeat him?”

   “Let’s hope so,” Meg sighed. “Let’s hope so.”

With that Annie gained an extra teacher. Question after question were thrown at her to confirm she was learning the lessons. Now, when Meg flagged through tiredness or hunger, Roma took over. Her husband had rallied and was back on his feet and in search of work. Annie told Roma of Pat’s offer to shoe the horse.

   “We take nothing for nothing,” Roma said. “But my man is strong and will work for your friend and earn the money.”

Unfortunately, Pat had left for the town when Roma’s husband called, and his assistant knew nothing of the offer. He called to the door of Meg’s cottage in search of his wife, and Annie was overawed by the sheer size of the man. He must have stood at almost six feet, and he was big in stature to match. Meg, of course, invited him to join them in their dinner, and with a gentle prompting from his wife, he accepted. He was not used to being inside the homes of settled folk, he told them, and seemed awkward and unsure of himself. This soon passed with the flurry of children streaming through the door. Lily and Paul were delighted to see their father, and Rose and Dora stared up at him in wonder. They had never seen anyone so big in all their lives, but they were soon clambering around him, following the lead of his children. Annie watched him as he played with the children and smiled at his gentleness in handling them. He tickled and teased them, making sure Rose or Dora were not left out of the horseplay.

   There was not a scrap of food left over that evening, and Annie vowed she would cook some extra from now on. Roma’s husband, Stefan, was built like a bear and ate as much. It was comforting to have him there. He seemed to fill the small room, and it felt safe. The children were sent into the next room to play as he told the women about his day. How Pat had left for the town, and how his offer to work was turned down by the villagers.

   “Some of them spat at me when I passed, and others crossed themselves. There is something amiss there. I’ve known many who despise our kind, but I’ve never seen such hatred as I did in the faces I saw today.”

Roma sat by her husband and laid her hand on his.

   “The Dark One is here.”

The look of fear crossing his face was impossible to miss.

   “Are you sure?”

   “We’ve all felt him.”

   “I’ve not got the power,” he spoke to Annie. “But I sense something very strong in you.”

   “I don’t know what this power is.”

   “It is the power of light over dark,” Meg replied. “You’ve been granted a gift only few have ever known, and it is only given to those he knows will use it well. It’s the light of angels.”

   “Am I an angel?”

   “Far from it,” Meg smiled, and the others laughed.

They talked for a few more hours. Roma and Stefan told more of their travelling tales and of the wonderful sights they had seen. When it came time for them to take their leave, Annie went to the bedroom to call the children. All four of them were snuggled together in one bed and sound asleep.

   “It seems a shame to wake them,” she whispered to Roma. “Leave them here. They’ll be quite safe.”

Roma hesitated for a moment before nodding. When they went back to the kitchen Meg and Stefan had their heads close together, whispering.

   “Let us in on the secret,” Annie teased, and the faces that turned towards her were solemn.

   “I was just saying to Stefan, they should bring the caravan here. They can park it behind the cottage. The horse is lame but can walk this far, and between all of us we can push the caravan.”

Annie and Roma looked at one another in delight. Meg, Annie, and the girls would have the comfort of having a man about the place, and Roma would have a sanctuary of sort. It was decided Stefan would lead the horse to the cottage at first light, and they would all return with him and help push the caravan. He hesitated, when told of the sleeping children.

   “I worry, you know, Miss.”

   “We all worry but be assured I’ll guard them with my life.”

   “Perhaps, it’s as well,” he looked out into the darkness. The trees in front of the cottage tossed and swayed in a strong wind. “It’s going to be a bad night.”

   “Maybe, you should all stay,” Annie felt a strange unquiet. “You could sleep in front of the fire.”

   “No, that’s not our way. I’d probably wake screaming,” he laughed. “We’re not used to being caged. We will be back in the morning and weather permitting; I will make a start on the thatch on your roof. I noticed it’s in need of repair.”

   “That’s incredibly good of you. I was worried about it and if we get a heavy snowfall it will probably cave in. My father meant to do it,” she stopped and bit her lip.

   “Well, we’re glad to have a man around again and that’s for sure,” Meg tried to lighten the mood.

   “Oh,” Annie said. “I’ve no way of paying you.”

   “Haven’t you fed and watered us,” he laughed. “That’s payment enough for us.”

   “We’ll be able to keep you in work for a long while,” Meg assured him. “This young one,” she placed a hand on Annie’s shoulder. “Has fields that need harvesting and the sooner the better or the crops will rot.”

   “Till the morning then,” he dipped his head to get out the door, and Roma kissed both women before following him.

   “Lock up well,” she warned.

They were soon swallowed up by the darkness, and Annie closed and secured the door with a stout plank of wood. Meg threw some more turf on the fire and went to fetch her books. They would spend the next few hours in study and prayer.

He was standing outside in the darkness; his shoulder-length hair flew around him like a black cloak. He watched the gypsies leave. These people always thwarted his work since the beginning. They were his enemy’s foot soldiers, and while their power was not great, it was somewhat annoying. Now, they were in league with the girl and the old woman. It would not do. He stayed for a few moments longer watching the shadows moving in the flickering light inside the cottage. The girl had grown stronger in the past few days. She had learned much and the more she knew, the more of a threat she became. He would wear her down. Take everyone she loved from her until he was all she had left. He had work to do before morning, but he could not leave without wishing her goodnight. Throwing his head back, he opened his mouth and screamed at the heavens. It was a roar of triumph, for it would not be long until he had the power. His enemy was weak; the people of this place were turning from him. We will meet soon the sound said, but to those who heard it bellowing from the forest, it was the sound of the beast.

   “Go back to your book,” Meg warned Annie, who was looking in terror towards the window.

   “He’s outside?”

   “He’s been there most nights, but you’re safe. He knows it is useless to try and come in. Go back to your learning.”

Annie looked down into the book, but the words swam. She was shaking, her heart pounded against her chest. What sort of man, of thing, was it that could make such a sound?  Her fingers shook as she turned the page and she tried to avoid Meg’s eyes; in case she saw how frightened she was.

   “It’ll go.”

She looked up from the book.

   “The fear you have will leave when you come face to face with him.”

Annie nodded and glanced towards the window again. Meg’s finger tapping on the top of the book made her turn around and continue with her studies.

The sun had been up for hours and there was still no sight of Stefan and Roma. Paul and Lily were delighted to wake up in the bed with Rose and Dora, but they were becoming anxious. Annie searched the forest trail expecting at any moment Stefan would come into view leading the horse. It was past noon when they got tired of waiting and worry sent them in search of the couple. Meg walked slowly, leaning on her stick with one hand and Annie’s arm with the other. The children ran and played in the giant ferns beneath the trees. Hiding and jumping out at one another, their screams of fright and delight grating on Annie’s nerves.

   “It’s just over the hill,” Paul called. “Not far now.”

   “Paul, come back,” Annie shouted at the boy, who was disappearing over the brow of the hill. “I have to stop him,” she brushed Meg’s hand from her arm and started to run.

He was sliding down the grassy hill into the hollow when she skirted the brow. She half slid, half ran after him, but he was too quick for her.

   “No, no, no.”

She ran into the camp and stood panting and looking in amazement at the carnage. Lily came and stood beside her, slipping a small hand into hers.

   “Where’s my Ma and Da, Annie?”

   “I don’t know.”

Meg reached them and was trying to coax Paul to stand up. The boy had fallen to his knees in fright. The caravan lay on its side; the roof was shattered into splinters. Pots, pans, and multi-coloured bits of clothing littered the site. From a distance the blues, reds and greens must have looked like a carnival, but close up, it was a different matter. The smell of fear hung in the air and there was something else… Annie put Lily in Meg’s care and went in search of whatever it was she sensed. She did not have to look far. The giant Shire horse lay dead among the trees. He, like the caravan, was lying on his side and the marks on his body were unbelievable. Blood matted his hair and black streaks ran down the side visible to Annie. She drew closer, the smell was sickening, but there was a sort of horrific fascination in the marking on the body. What she had thought of as black streaks were in fact great tears in the flesh, as if some beast with enormous talons attacked the animal. The horse’s eyes, now glassy with death, were open wide in terror, its lips drawn back across of teeth in a grimace of agony. Annie did not realise she was crying until she heard Meg call to her.  Wiping her eyes with her sleeve, she went back to the campsite. Meg stood before the dead campfire and surrounded by the frightened children.

   “What did you see?” Rose asked.

   “Nothing, there was nothing to see. Come,” she turned them back towards the hill. “We’ll go back to Meg’s cottage, and I’ll go to the village and find out what’s happened.”

   “Are my Ma and Da dead?” Paul sobbed.”

   “No, I’m sure they’re not. There was a terrible wind last night. Perhaps that is what happened. It blew the caravan over and scattered the clothing everywhere.”

   “Where’s Ivan?”

Annie realised Ivan was probably the horse’s name.

   “He must have wondered off or been frightened by the wind. Don’t worry, we’ll find them.”

   “Promise.”

   “I promise.”

It was a much more subdued party that made its way back through the forest. The children walked slowly, whispering to one another. Annie told Meg about the horse and its strange wounds.

   “And what of Roma and Stefan?”

   “I don’t know.”

   “Think, child,” she stopped. “Close your eyes and feel it with your heart. Are they still alive?”

Annie closed her eyes and searched for them in her mind. She could feel them.

   “Yes,” she almost cried with joy. “Yes, they’re alive.”

   “Thank God and his Blessed Mother. They must be close by for you to find them so fast. In the village, perhaps?”

   “I’ll have to go and see.”

Meg did not answer. In fact, she said little until they were inside the cottage. The children’s faces and hands needed washing, as they had become streaked with grime from the constant wiping away of tears. Annie prepared something to eat, but no one had much appetite. Meg sat by the fire lost in thought and brushed away the plate offered to her.

   “What will you do now, Annie?” Paul asked.

   “I’ll go to the village and see if anyone has news of your parents.”

   “I’ll go with you. I’m big and I’ll take care of you.”

Her heart ached as she looked into his earnest face.

   “Thank you, Paul, but I’d feel much better knowing there was a man here taking care of the women.”

He thought for a moment, before nodding.

   Instead of going outside as they usually did, the children opted to go into the bedroom. They were trying to be brave and she heard Paul talking to them, assuring them of his protection. His was the kind of courage only a child can know. Closing the door as quietly as possible, she went back to the kitchen and started to clear away the plates.

   “Leave that for a minute, child,” Meg called to her.

Wiping her hands on her apron, Annie went and sat beside the old woman.

   “They’re in his power. He’s taken them prisoner.”

   “Are you sure, Meg?” Annie had sensed him at the campsite. Among the many smells, the strongest was that of corruption. “What do we do?”

   “We’ll wait until nightfall. You are not afraid of the night are you, child. Being alone again in the forest?”

   “No, I’m not afraid anymore.” Annie was amazed to hear herself say this, but it was true. Having seen the carnage at the site, the dead horse and the crying children somehow renewed her courage and strengthened her resolve. She would do whatever she could, face whatever foe she had to, to free her friends.

   “Then you’ll go to the village under the cloak of darkness and visit Jane O Regan. She will have heard what is going on. It’s a pity Pat’s away.” The old woman mused, and Annie felt her cheeks grow red at the mention of his name.

   “Why can’t I go now?”

   “It’s the talk, child, the stupid talk that’s been put about of witchcraft. Women like us, with the knowledge of healing have been persecuted for centuries. It does not matter we use this knowledge to help to heal the sick and injured; they still fear and spurn us. I thought we would be safe in a place like this. Your blessed parents thought so too ever since that first day…”

   Annie knew what Meg was talking about; she had heard the story enough times. She could have been no more then five or six. They were walking through the woods and Annie heard an animal in pain. It was a rabbit, trapped in a snare. Its leg torn and bleeding from its efforts to get free. Being a child and unwise in the ways of the hunter, her first instinct was to free the rabbit. Meg watched as she edged closer to the frightened creature, soothing it with soft words until it seemed hypnotised and stopped its struggling. Meg helped her untie the snare and watched in fascination as Annie wiped the blood from its torn leg with her apron. Once the cut was clear of blood, she continued to run one finger over the torn tissue until the flesh joined and there was no trace of there ever having been a cut in the first place.

   “I healed the rabbit,” she told Meg, as they watched it hop away.

   “You healed the rabbit sure enough,” was the way Meg always ended the story.

It was then Meg and her parents realised how gifted Annie was and they were afraid for her. But the years passed by without too much fuss. True, there were those in the village who thought her strange, but they were never a threat.

   “If the fear of witchcraft is on them, they might try to take you as well.”

Annie found she was shaking. She was not afraid for herself, but for her sisters.

   “What do they do to witches?”

   “Hanging mostly, but I’ve heard of worse. Oh, child, I would not frighten you for the world but I am afraid. I am old and my time is almost up, but you have your whole life ahead of you. We must be careful. Trust no one from now on. Be careful of whom you speak to, and we may somehow survive this.”

The Wraith chapter twenty-two

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on April 25, 2020
Posted in: books, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Halloween, Haunted Houses, horror, insomnia, memories, monsters, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, sleeplessness, twlight, Witchcraft, Witches, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

         Every time Toby woke, he was forced to breathe; the cold, dank, mustiness of the grave, mingled with the reek of rotten timber and mildew. Sometimes, while he slept, he caught the scent of his mother, but when he reached out to her, there was nothing there. He had grown used to the dark and no longer needed to leave the fridge open all the time. Now, he slipped out of bed and went to get something to eat. All the fizzy drinks and biscuits were gone, and he was left with the cheese, ham and milk. In a way, he was glad of this, as he had learned that too many sweet things made his tummy hurt. To his disgust, he had to use the potty thing, and now this stench, added to that of the room.

   He wasn’t quite as frightened now that the little girl came to see him. At first, he was afraid, as sometimes the room seemed full of children. They moved silently around him in the dark. He heard them whispering and giggling, during what he thought might have been the daytime, but at night their voices were different. They called out to him, begging for help. During this time, he would cover his ears and shout at them to stop, but they never listened. The first time it happened, he had buried his head in the pillow and sobbed. That was when the little girl came.

          The touch of her hand on his shoulder made him scream. He knew no one had come through the trap door above his head, and he was afraid to look around.

   “Hello,” she whispered. “Don’t be afraid. I live here too.”

Toby looked up at her. She was about his age, kind of pretty and a bit weird looking. She seemed to glow in the dark.

   “I never saw you before,” Toby said. “Where do you live?”

   “Over there,” she pointed to one of the shadowy corners. “I live in the dark. My name is Rachael”

   “How come I never heard you move or anything?”

   “I was a bit afraid, in case you were like the bad men.”

   “Did they bring you here?” He sat up in the bed and made room for her to sit down.

   “Yes. They took me away from my Mam and Dad and now I can’t go home,” her eyes were sad when she looked at him. “You don’t know the way, do you?”

   “No,” Toby looked up at the ceiling. “I think it’s out through the door up there, but there’s no stairs.”

   “I hate it here,” she followed his gaze. “It’s always cold, and I’m frightened.”

   “Here,” he lifted the quilt. “Get in, it’s warmer under here.”

She was right, Toby thought, as she cuddled up beside him. She was very cold.

   “How long have you been here?” He asked.

   “I don’t know, longer than the others.”

   “What others?”

   “The boys,” she looked at him. “They came here after me.”

   “Where are they?”

   “Over there,” she nodded to one of the dark corners. “But they won’t come out. They’re too afraid of the bad men.”

Toby shivered and looked into the darkness. None of this made sense. Why couldn’t he see the boys?

   “I’m afraid of them,” Toby pulled the quilt up to his face, until only his eyes were exposed.

   “The bad men?” The girl whispered.

   “Yeah, them too, but I mean the boys.”

   “They’re only boys,” she laughed.

   “Scary boys,” he was on the verge of tears.

   “Oh, you’re just silly,” she threw back the quilt and walked across the room, disappearing into the darkness.

For a moment, Toby thought she had left him forever, but she soon came back.

   “Come on,” she called over her shoulder. “He’s just a boy like you. Stop being such scaredy cats.”

Toby watched in amazement as the shadows took shape, and two boys peeped out from behind the girl. They were wary at first, but then one of them saw the Superman doll, and came over to where Toby sat.

   “Hey, cool,” he picked up the doll. “I used to have one like that.”

   “He’s my favourite,” Toby lost his fear. “But I have Batman and Robin too.”

   “Do you have the Batmobile?” The other boy came and joined them. “I have that. It’s cool, shoots rockets and everything.”

   “Yeah,” Toby said. “But it’s at home.”

At the mention of the word home, the boys grew silent, and even Toby had to swallow hard.

   “I wish we could go home,” the girl sat down on the bed beside them.

They all nodded.

   “I miss my mother,” she started to cry.

The boys were all on the verge of joining her, but they looked at one another and an unspoken agreement was reached, they would be strong, for the girl.

   Once they managed to calm her down, the hours flew by, as they swapped stories on how they came to live in the room. The boys, Paul and Raymond, were taken in much the same way as Toby. The girl, Rachael, was coming back from buying an ice cream from the van.

   “I dropped my cone,” she said, as though this was a greater crime.

They all gasped at this act of sacrilege, and agreed that the men, who had taken them, were very bad.

   “Why do they want us?” Toby asked.

The children looked at one another and Toby became afraid.

   “It’s bad, isn’t it?” He asked.

   “There are three men,” Paul spoke for all of them. “And they hurt you.”

   “No,” Toby whispered, drawing back a little on the bed.

   “They don’t hurt us anymore,” Rachael sought to appease him.

   “No,” Paul agreed, and then thought for a moment. “But they might hurt Toby though.”

   “Well, we won’t let them,” Rachael stood and placed her hands on her hips. “I’m sick of the dark and I want to go home.”

   “We all want that,” Paul said. “But there’s nothing we can do.”

   “I’m too frightened,” Raymond’s eyes were wide. “I hate them.”

   “I hate them too,” Rachael agreed. “But I wish we could do something.”

The boys stood. Raymond allowed the doll to slip from his fingers, and back onto the bed. Toby saw how truly frightened they were, and his stomach ached, when he thought what the men might do to hurt him.

   “See you,” Paul said, as he started to walk across the room, and back into the shadows.

   “Here,” Toby held out the doll to Raymond. “You can have a loan.”

   “Really?” He smiled for the first time and took the doll. “Thanks, I won’t break it or anything.”

Toby felt sad, as he watched Paul place his arm around Raymond’s shoulders, and lead him back in to the dark.

   “They really are scaredy cats,” Rachael huffed, and sat down on the bed.

   “Aren’t you frightened?” Toby was amazed by such courage, especially in a girl.

She thought for a moment, before answering.

   “I suppose I’m a bit afraid,” she agreed. “But I’m more afraid of the dark, and I miss my mother.”

   “I miss my mother too,” Toby said.

          Rachael was now a constant visitor, and Toby was used to her popping in and out. Once, when he was alone, he searched the corners of the room, but there was no one there. He felt along the walls, looking for a gap in the timbers, somewhere they could come and go through, but there was none. It was all a mystery and one the children were unable to explain. The boys came to see him now and then, but they never stayed very long. Toby knew they were too afraid, and he caught them looking fearfully at the trap door on many occasions. None of them would tell him about the things the bad men did to hurt them, and he knew it must have been something awful, because when he had a scab on his knee or elbow, he loved to show it off. He tried not to think about this, as it made his heart beat faster, and his stomach hurt. Another thing strange about the children was how they never ate anything. Though he offered to share his food, they always said that they weren’t hungry.

   Taking the milk out of the fridge, he drank from the carton. He knew his mother would never approve of this, but there were no cups or glasses. There was no sign of the others, and he was bored. There were some drawing pads and crayons on a table by his bed, and he found if he scrunched down beside the heater, its red light made it possible for him to see the paper. There were other drawings besides his, and he looked at the work the other children had done. Most of it was kind of sad, as even in the drawings of houses or dogs, there was always a picture of a child crying. Toby sighed and tried to remember the face of the man who had taken him. He was good at drawing, and within minutes, had an exact likeness of the man he had just got a brief glimpse of.

   “Hey, that’s him,” he hadn’t heard Rachael approach.

   “Did he take you too?” Toby asked.

   “No,” she knelt beside him. “But he’s one of the bad men.”

They both stared at the drawing a while, until Toby remembered there was something, he had to show her.

   “Look,” he reached into his pocket.

   “Oh, you found it,” Rachael picked up the tooth. “It fell out a long time ago, but it rolled away, and I couldn’t find it in the dark, so I didn’t get any money from the tooth fairy.”

   “Aw, that’s a pity,” Toby said, then added. “What if I put it under my pillow? The tooth fairy might think it’s mine and leave me the money.”

   “Brill,” Rachael clapped her hands. “We can split it.”

They were giggling as they placed the tooth under the pillow. It would be great if their plan worked. Though neither one knew what they would do with the money, or how they would spend it, they just thought it would be great fun to get one over on the tooth fairy.

   “Wait until I tell the others,” Rachael laughed. “They’ll be jealous.”

It was agreed Raymond would return the Superman doll at night, so Toby had something to cuddle up with. Though he had no concept of when day and night was, he judged it by when he felt tired and needed the doll. Sometimes, when he was alone and a little bit afraid, he thought he heard his mother calling him. The first time it happened he had shouted to her, but now he knew it was probably just his imagination. Still, when it happened, he closed his eyes and called out to her in his head, hoping she would hear him. He knew she was looking for him, and would never give up, and the other children’s’ mothers would be doing the same, so someone was bound to find them soon.

         It was a gut-wrenching moment, when they realised the tooth fairy had not fallen for their deception.

   “She probably knew it was old,” Toby looked down at the tooth.

Rachael took it out of his hand and threw it across the room.

   “Stupid fairy,” she stamped her foot. “Now the others will be laughing at me.”

   “Never mind,” Toby patted her back. “One of mine is a bit loose.

He opened his mouth and pointed with his tongue.

   “See?” He asked, as she looked in his mouth.

   “Yeah, but it’s only a bit wobbly,” she poked it with her finger.

   “Yuck,” Toby pushed her hand away. “You taste funny.”

   “No, I don’t,” she pushed him.

   “Yeah, you do, like cold, mud.”

   “No, I don’t,” she started to cry. “I’m not talking to you anymore.”

As he watched her disappear back into the shadow, Toby hoped she didn’t mean what she said. He was too proud to call after her and apologise, because she really did taste bad. Tired, he sat on the bed and waited. Outside in the night, an owl screeched its ghostly cry. It echoed through the cracks in the cottage walls, and all the way down into the cellar.

The Wraith-chapter eighteen

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on April 21, 2020
Posted in: books, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, horror, insomnia, monsters, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, sleeplessness, thoughts, twlight, Witchcraft, Witches, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

         Today was a series of highs and low. I took time off work to join in the search. I had to show willing. All the obvious areas were checked and there is not one barn, outbuilding, or ruin that wasn’t searched. No clue came to light on the whereabouts of the boy and spirits are running low, as the hours pass, and exhaustion sets in. They brought the search and rescue in this morning, and I was out at first light to watch the boats set off. The rescue crews use dinghies, but those with boats and other small craft accompanied them. The river is ten miles from the village, and I wonder how they imagine a small boy would walk that distance. The dreaded kidnapper wouldn’t discard his prize that quickly, as the child is something to be savoured, like a fine wine.

   The divers looked like sleek seals in the dim morning light, and I watched through binoculars, as they prepared for the task. I admit my stomach gave a little flip every time one of them fell backwards into the water. I wonder what it is like to search beneath the water. I am told visibility is poor and after a few feet, it is pitch-black especially at this time of year, when there’s little sunlight. Imagine searching in the dark, feeling your way among the debris with only your senses to guide you. There were a few villagers lining the banks this morning. Some brought deck chairs and picnic hampers, and there was a bit of a party atmosphere going at one stage. We edged closer to the river every time a diver surfaced from its murky depths and not a sound was heard, as we held our breaths. I feigned disappointment when it was signalled to shore nothing was found and unlike the onlookers, I left early. I knew what the outcome would be, and once the initial excitement wore off, I became bored. I returned to work, as the weather was cold, and I did not want to catch a chill.

I thought about the boy again last night. I find this strange, as I’ve always managed to distance myself from their suffering. It’s the dark nights bring him to mind. That and the strange shuffling sounds I’ve started to hear in my home. Last night, I became a child again and left the landing light on. I found it hard to sleep, even with the help of two strong tranquilisers; I tossed and turned for ages. That is when I heard it; a slow, dragging of feet on the wooden floor, as though the walker was too weary to lift their legs. It’s no use trying to dismiss it, as it refused to be ignored. I know it’s nothing mortal, as I’d checked every window and the house alarm was on. My educations taught me there’s a rational explanation for most things, so what was it stalking me? A vision of the little girl, I can’t recall her name, swam before me and I heard her words again. I laughed, all those years ago at her childish threats, but now…There’s a key in the lock of my bedroom door. It has been there since the house was built, and I have never had reason to use it, until now. I sat for a while, listening. I didn’t dare turn on the light. The slightest movement would’ve alerted it to my presence. I stayed in the dark, watching the light flowing in from under the door. How my hands trembled as I drew my quilt closer, but I swear for the first time in my life, I became afraid of the unknown. I know you think it’s probably my imagination and I tried to convince myself the same thing, until I saw it. A shadow moved across the strip of light beneath the door. Twice it passed by and by the third time, I was weeping with terror. Gathering courage, I ran for the door and turned the key in the lock. It was standing outside, its shadow fell upon my bare toes, and I knew, it wasn’t an illusion. Can you imagine my terror knowing something stood listening at the other side of the door? All that protected me from some nameless thing was a thin sheet of wood.

   I spent the rest of the night watching its progress. There was no one I could call for help, and if I did reach for the phone and bring the doctor out on some pretence, I would have to open my door and walk out to the landing. I waited as the hours crawled by, and it was only as the first light of dawn crept into my room the infernal shuffling stopped.

   In the light of day, it’s easy to dismiss what happened and anyway, what could it be? The ghost of a child? There’s no one else I’ve hurt, or some Wraith sent to haunt me. Ha, I think not. I will pay another visit to the doctor, as I read on the leaflet enclosed with the sleeping pills, they can cause hallucinations. That’s probably what it was, the effects of the pills coupled with my overwrought mind.

   The rest of the day passed slowly. My work bores me, I no longer find pleasure in the things I once enjoyed. Hour after monotonous hour crawled by until I was free from the confines of my labours. There would be a further meeting in the school assembly hall this evening and I’d be there. You know how I thrive on the uncertainty, how the confusion and distress serve to excite me. I did visit the doctor and to my disappointment, she wasn’t there, the boy’s mother. It’s crass of me to expect she’d be working under the circumstances. She strikes me as the stiff upper lip type, and I would have liked to witness her distress, but it was not to be. The doctor agreed it was the pills causing my nightmares and illusions and changed my prescription. He was kind enough to add anyone could be excused having bad dreams with all that was going on. We exchanged a few pleasantries, swapped theories on what happened to the boy. I almost laughed, when he described what he’d like to do to the person involved; for a man of medicine, tut tut.

   The house didn’t have the same air of foreboding it had earlier in the day. My courage was renewed by the bottle in my pocket and in the comforting rattle of the pills, which I was assured, would knock out a horse. I’ve taken to reading Freud; did I tell you that? Not that’s it done me a bit of good, but I’ve persevered through endless pages of twaddle. He believes we can’t control any of our actions, as we’re victims of what’s gone before. Something about men being afraid of having their penis cut off. What twaddle! I agree with him on one point, as that part of the anatomy was the catalyst for all the horror; at least in Freddy’s and Christy’s case. He believes psychoanalysis is the key and anyone can be transformed, if they put themselves in the care of a professional. It made me laugh when I thought of Freddy, who is madder that any of the misfortunates who share their darkest secrets with him. If only I could believe what Freud said was true and I could turn my life around, but the compulsion is too strong, I know I’m a creature of habit. No, I’m clutching at straws, now the time is upon me, and I search for ways out that were never an option.

After dinner, I decided to take a stroll down to the school. As usual, the place was buzzing with a constant stream of people. It was dark when I got there, and the lights from the assembly hall were the only thing cutting through the night. All the shops were closed and shuttered for the night and my footsteps echoed in the still air. I thought I saw something in the shadows, but I’m sure it was my imagination. I see danger behind every bush and tree and jump at the slightest sound. Thankfully my colleagues excuse this as understandable with all the tension in the air, etc. I’ll have to try and pull myself together. If others hear the tremor in my voice, they will become suspicious, and I would not want to rouse their wrath.

   I made my presence known by volunteering to help. Paul O’Farrell was there, fielding calls and interviewing witnesses. He looked haggard from want of sleep, but I’ve seen him look this way before. Still, I can’t help, but derive some sort of satisfaction knowing I’m the cause of his suffering and the witnesses have nothing much to offer.

   “Would you mind sitting in for me?” He asked. “Take any calls and tell them I’ll phone back.”

   “No problem,” I assured him.

   “I’ll want to slip home and have a shower,” he explained.

There were three other desks in the room, and a police officer sat at each of the other two. They showed the same signs of neglect and stress and watched the retreating figure of their superior with a mixture of disgust and yearning. Once the room emptied and the phones ceased to ring, I suggested they follow suit and assured them of my ability to cope. They hung on to this suggestion like drowning men and shook my hand before walking away. I realise something, not God, that is for sure, was on my side, as they had no sooner disappeared through the door, when a ghost from my past entered. My hands shook and the words on the A4 pad in front of me merged until I couldn’t read them. I made pretence of writing, but I saw later what I wrote made no sense. I hadn’t seen him in nine years and never expected to see him again, so his appearance was disconcerting.

   If he recognised me, he gave no sign, other than to hand in the map marked with the area he’d searched.

   “Any news?” I felt the hopelessness in his question.

   “None, I’m afraid,” was my sad answer, as I put on what I call, my “undertakers face”, mournful and full of understanding.

Though I didn’t want to make any further conversation with him, the man refused to leave and walked to the area set up as a makeshift canteen and poured himself a coffee.

   “Want one?” he held the pot up.

   “No, thank you,” I replied. “I’ve been drinking it all day.”

   “I can imagine,” he came and sat in the chair opposite my desk.

He thought I was playing a major part of the search.

   “I can’t believe it’s happening again,” he said.

I looked up at him and frowned, pretending not to know what he meant.

   “Oh, you don’t know about the others?”

   “Only from what I’ve been told,” I said. “I’ve read some of the old reports, but I arrived in the village when the first child went missing.”

At first, I wondered if my words betrayed me, as he was watching me closely.

   “I was working abroad,” I explained. “I came back home when my father passed away. He lived here for many years.”

   “I see,” he nodded, and I saw something in his eyes.

Was it a fleeting glimpse of suspicion? My imagination is apt to play tricks on me and my nerves are not the best.

   “My daughter was the first child to go missing,” he continued. “She was only seven at the time and it destroyed my family.”

   “I’m so sorry,” I patted his hand.

Did he flinch at my touch, I think he did? I willed the doors to open, but the cold drove the most hardened indoors and there was nothing to relieve me from his probing gaze.

   “My wife took her own life a year later,” he continued, and I swear there was accusation in his tone. “She never recovered from her loss, neither did I.”

   “There can be nothing worse than the death of a child,” I hoped this sounded sincere.

   “I never said she was dead,” his eyes became cold lasers boring into my soul. “Only she’s missing.”

   “Of course, I understand.”

My tortured nerves screamed.

   “I’m sorry,” he placed his cup down on the desk. “I’m tired, and I shouldn’t be taking it out on you.”

   “We’re all tired,” I gave him my sad smile again. “You should go home and try to rest.”

   “Are you on all night?” He looked around the empty hall.

   “No, until the detective in charge gets back.”

   “Paul, I met him earlier today.”

   “He’s gone home to have a shower and something to eat,” I explained.

   “He must be exhausted,” he said. “I remember when he was searching for Rachael. He’s a good man, but the odds were stacked against him.”

   “What do you mean?” I was troubled by his inference.

   “The person who took the boy is well organised. It’s probably a gang of some sort, don’t you think?”

   “I can’t imagine,” I’m sure I stuttered.

   “Oh, definitely a gang,” he mused. “This isn’t some lunatic working alone. The boy is probably miles from here and time is running out.”

I nodded, unable to speak. Of all the theories put forward, his was the most accurate. The realisation of how close he came to the truth left me dumbfounded, but I managed to wish him goodnight.

   My house seems like a sanctuary after the terror of that meeting, and I’ve turned the key in the bedroom door locking myself in. The prescription bottle instructed I take only one of the sleeping pills, but I’ve taken two to be on the safe side. Despite my fright I’m still counting, 112…

All Hallows – Chapter 10

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on December 9, 2017
Posted in: books, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Halloween, Paranormal, passion, scary, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

 

 

The blast of warm air was welcoming on Lorraine’s chilled skin. She felt her body relax as she queued to give her details at the reception desk. It was flu season and the doctor’s surgery was filled to capacity. Her shopping was heavy and she looked around hoping a seat would be available once she’d checked in. She’d stopped off at the supermarket first, in case there was a long wait at the surgery and she was right. By the looks of things it’d be lunch time before she was out and for the first time she was glad. It meant not waiting around in the biting cold and the ready made sandwiches she’d purchased meant her children would’ve something to fill them.

. One bar glowed on the gas heater at the top of the room, but with the overcrowded conditions it was enough to ensure those who waited grew uncomfortable. It also increased the stench of the body odors and she tried not to breathe too deeply, especially when the man beside her started to cough as through his lungs would soon follow the whooping from his chest. All around her patients sniffed and sneezed and she fumbled in her coat pocket for a tissue and brought it to her face. If anyone noticed her actions they’d imagine she was patting her nose and not trying to ward off the swarming germs. The last thing she needed was the flu on top of everything else. Her ribs ached from the beating and the cut on her lip stung. Holding her purse tight against her body, she closed her eyes and tried to relax. The hum of conversation soothe her and her lids became heavy.

 

The crowd thinned out and the constant blast of cold air from the opening of the door gave some respite from the heat. It was noon and she’d been sitting there for over an hour and a half. If the doctor gave ten minutes to each of the remaining patients, she’d be out about quarter to one. This gave her plenty of time to walk to the school before the lunch break and while she didn’t relish the idea of Abbey’s accusing stares, it gave her comfort her children wouldn’t go without food. The piles of dog eared magazines meant to help pass the time looked dirty and uninviting so she settled back and closed her eyes.

She nodded off, because the next thing she felt was a hand on her arm.

“Is that you?” A man nodded towards the secretary who waited.

“Sorry,” Lorraine got up. “Did you call me?”

“Yes,” the woman scowled, before walking away.

For a moment Lorraine panicked when she realised her purse was missing. To her relief she found it under her chair. It fell while she slept and she picked it up along with her two shopping bags.

“Thank you,” she smiled at the men who woke her.

“No problem, love,” he said. “The heat makes you nod off.”

 

“Ah, my old friend,” Dr Miller smiled when he saw Lorraine then creased his brow as he looked down at the cut on her lip.

Depositing her load beside his desk, she sat and fumbled with the buttons on her coat.

“There’s no need to ask what the matter is,” he tilted her face towards him.

She didn’t answer and allowed him to examine her lip.

“Any more surprises for me? He asked.

“My ribs,” Lorraine mumbled.

“Pop up on the couch.”

Slipping off her coat and shoes she did as he asked.

“When did this happen? He felt along her stomach for any sign of damage.

“Last night, ouch,” she groaned, as his fingers traced a path along her ribs.

“Sorry,” he finished his exploring. “You can sit up.”

She was glad of the hand helping her up. The snap of latex gloves hung in the air as she made her way back to her seat.

“I’ll tape it up for you,” he nodded at her lip.

“Thanks,” she tried not to wince as he pulled the cut together and placed small strips across it.

“What am I going to do with you? He looked down into her eyes and she saw concern reflected in his.

“Please don’t be kind to me,” she was afraid she’d cry.

“How much more can you take?” He asked. “I can bandage your ribs, but one day he’ll do some lasting damage.”

“I know,” she whispered.

“Look, Lorraine,” he ran his hand through his hair exasperated. “There’s no point in us going over the same old thing. You won’t leave and I’ll keep patching you up until one day…”

He left the sentence hanging, but she knew he meant one day he’d be called to view her body.

“I need a prescription for the pill,” she said.

He added this to the painkillers he was prescribing. The next few minutes were spent wrapping her aching ribs in bandages. They made small talk about the cold and the dark nights. Lorraine dug her nails into the palms of her hands as this kind man touched her with a gentleness she’d forgotten.

“Come back in a week and I’ll make sure you’re healing ok,” he said.

“Thanks,” Lorraine shrugged on her coat and picked up the shopping bags.

 

Inside the surgery Dr Miller peeped through the window blinds and watched her go. He had hundreds of patients, but this young woman touched him more than any. He saw terrible suffering on a daily basis and there was something almost regal in the way Lorraine Ryan dealt with her pain.

All Hallows – Chapter 4

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on October 27, 2017
Posted in: Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, gloom, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Haunted Houses, honoring the dead, horror, literary agents, Paranormal, passion, scary, the true meaning of Halloween, twlight, Witchcraft, Witches, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER FOUR

 

It was the smell that woke Sarah. Its scent wafted through the cracks in the wall, as her mother lit her first cigarette of the day. There wasn’t any need for an alarm clock, as this event was her signal to rise. The stench of the tobacco was everywhere. Its willowy trails permeated her clothes, her books, even her skin and hair. Despite keeping the bedroom door shut, it managed to sneak its way in, but its odour was nothing compared to that of cats.

The pounding of her mother’s fist on the wall roused her, and she slipped from beneath the bedclothes. The room was freezing, and when she pulled back the thin curtains, the glass inside the window was transformed into a crystal spider’s web. Shivering, she touched the pattern and watched as the ice melted beneath her fingers.

“What is it, Sarah?”

The whisper from the bed made her draw back her hand.

“It’s ice, Brian,” she smiled at her little brother. “It’s going to be a chilly winter this year.”

“Oh, no,” he groaned, and pulled the covers back over his head.

Though ten-years-old, the memories of past winters were fresh in his mind, and the nights of bone-numbing cold couldn’t be erased. The cottage was a tumbledown affair, built in a time before insulation or central heating. It was tiny in comparison with modern standards. On one side of the building there was a kitchen, which also served as sitting room. A small hallway led to the two bedrooms and an ancient bathroom, where the plumbing was salvaged from another age. There was no boiler and consequently no hot water, other than to boil a kettle on the old stove in the kitchen. This was Sarah’s first task of the day, once she’d brought breakfast to her mother, to boil enough water to wash them both.

“Stay there,” she patted the humped shape under the covers. “I think there’s some eggs in the larder, I’ll call you when they’re ready.”

“Thanks, Sarah,” came the muffled reply.

Since the cottage was small, she had to share a room with her brother. Although he could be a bit of a pain at times, she didn’t mind. They were used to respecting one another’s privacy, when it came to dressing or undressing. With two small single beds, there wasn’t much room to move. An old tea chest, her mother found, served as their wardrobe. What little clothes they had were folded inside, and despite Sarah’s attempts to clean away any evidence of its cargo, the black grains of tea managed to get in their clothes and had to be shaken away like the husks of dead fleas.

Slipping her school jumper over her nightdress, she walked into the hallway. It seemed colder here, and she hurried towards the kitchen, hoping to find warmth in the fire’s dying embers. The smell felt like a smack in the face, when she opened the door, and she drew back in disgust. She waited for the shock from the acidic fumes to pass, before attempting to go in. Her mother, aware the night would be a cold one, allowed her menagerie of cats to sleep indoors. Most were feral strays, which the confines of the room terrified, and they’d shown their displeasure by the amount of faeces and pools of urine lining the stone floor. Tired from numerous attempts to escape, they’d settled down in front of the fire or on top of the table. Once Sarah appeared they arose en-mass, arching their backs and yawning. Some mewed piteously; others narrowed their eyes and hissed.

Holding her hand over her nose, Sarah tiptoed across the room, trying to avoid the puddles on the stones, but it was difficult in the half light. She felt the wetness on the toes of her worn slippers. Flinging back the curtains, she threw open the window and picked up a broom.

“Out,” she ordered the last of the stragglers, who unlike their comrades refused to make a bolt for freedom. “Out, I said,” she swung the broom at the nearest group hitting a ginger tabby, who snarled at her before heading for the window.

Once they’d disappeared into the bone-chilling mist outside, she’d no choice, but to let the window to stay open. The fumes burned the lining in her nose, as she placed the kettle on the stove. As she waited for the water to boil, she started cleaning up the floor. Using an old newspaper, she managed to pick up most of the faeces, but the smell was too much on her delicate stomach, and she decided to leave the rest for her mother to deal with. The water from the lone tap in the sink stung her hands like needles of ice, as she washed away the dirt of the cats’ droppings.

Taking two eggs from the larder, she placed them in pot of water to boil. Brian would have to eat his breakfast in the bedroom, as there was no telling what germs were floating about in the kitchen. The kettle bubbled, so she placed some teabags in a pot and filled it. While she waited for it to brew, she took the loaf of bread out of the larder and tried to cut it on a small board on her lap. There was no way she’d use the kitchen table, not until it was scrubbed clean, and this would have to wait until after school. It was difficult to cut the loaf, and she wondered for the millionth time, why her mother insisted on buying the uncut bread. Sarah’s life would be so much easier if she’d buy sliced bread. The old rusty fridge yielded nothing more than some sliced ham, and this was curled and dry around the edges. The packet said it was still in date, and it she used to make sandwiches for her brother’s lunch. Sarah never took anything other than a slice of bread and butter. She rarely felt hungry, and if she did, she could eat it quickly before anyone saw the huge chunk. An assortment of paper bags was crushed into a dresser drawer, and she chose the cleanest two to wrap their lunches. God forbid, they should have cling wrap like civilised people.

The eggs were bubbling when she finished, and she’d forgotten the cold streaming through the open window, as she scooped them out of the pot. Making two small cone shapes from old newspaper, she placed an egg in each. Picking up a spoon and a slice of bread, she carried them back into her bedroom.

“Here you go, lazy bones,” she tapped her foot on the side of the bed.

Her brother emerged from beneath the covers.

“Don’t think I’ll be doing this every day,” she warned. “The bloody cats were in all night and the kitchen stinks to high heaven. Can you manage?” She asked, as he tried to balance to eggs.

“Yeah, no problem,” he tapped on the top of the egg.

“O.K., don’t get shell everywhere, or you won’t be able to sleep tonight if it gets into the sheets.”

“Hey, Sarah,” he called, and she turned back. Waving the egg-filled spoon at her, he smiled. “Look at me, I’m like a King.”

“Well, hurry up, King Brian,” she laughed, “You’ll need to have a wash before school.”

A harsh, racking cough from the room next door signaled her mother’s discontent at being kept waiting for her breakfast.

“Excuse me, my lord,” Sarah whispered, bowing to her brother, before hurrying away.

All Hallows – Chapter 3

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on October 20, 2017
Posted in: Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, gloom, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Halloween, Haunted Houses, honoring the dead, horror, Paranormal, scary, Witchcraft, Witches, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

 

Chapter Three

 

“I swear before God,” her hand closed on the crucifix hanging around her neck. “Nothing you say to me will leave this room, and I do want to help, in any way I can.”

He knew she was sincere in her offer, and not one to go about spreading idle gossip. Like him, she was lonely, and the lines on her face told their own story. Life wasn’t easy for her.

“It’s nothing concrete, you understand,” he decided to trust her. “And I can’t betray what I heard in the confessional.”

“I understand that, Father,” she nodded. “I wouldn’t dream of asking you, but if telling me a little of what bothers you eases the burden, I’d like to help.”

“You know about the two sudden deaths last October?” He asked.

“Yes, the suicide and the murder.”

“You think one of the deaths was murder?” Her answer amazed him, and gave him comfort he wasn’t alone in his suspicions.

“The whole place knows it was, but as the coroner said, there was no proof, and the murderer got away with it.”

He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment, relieved the wickedness in his own thoughts was echoed by others.

“I heard their last confessions,” he roused himself and went back to his tale. “Only hours before they died, and I did nothing to help.”

“How could you, Father?” Norah asked. “As you said the confessional is sacrosanct.”

“The knowledge gives me little comfort, I’m afraid, but you’re right. I couldn’t break the seal of confession, and it haunts me. That, and the promised each of them made to me,” his eyes grew troubled. “It’s exactly a year ago tonight, you know?”

“No, I didn’t know,” Norah pulled her coat around her shoulders. “I knew it happened around this time, but not the exact date.”

“I knew each of them well,” he said. “I christened little Sarah Jacobs. She was fifteen when she died, and I met Lorraine Ryan on the day she moved here,” he looked around the room. “I called offering to help with the move, but she’d little material possessions, and most of the furnisher was falling to pieces, but she was glad of the offer, and we became friends. You know in the old days,” he said. “I’m not talking about the last century or the one before, but going back maybe forty years ago, they buried suicides outside the walls of the graveyard, and not only suicides, but babies who were not baptised and unmarried mothers. They thought them unfit to lie in consecrated ground, God help us,” he put his head in his hands and his voice was muffled. “So much harm was done in the name of God.”

“They were superstitious times,” Norah said. “I remember reading how they buried suicides at crossroads with a stake through their hearts.”

He looked up at her.

“Well, we haven’t come far since then.”

“It’s this place, Father,” she said. “Folk have little to occupy their time, and the old superstitions die hard. It’s different in the cities with the drugs and people overdosing right, left and centre.”

“Ah, now, Norah,” he laughed, at the casualness of her words. “I don’t think they’re dying that fast.”

“Well, you know what I mean,” she sniffed and straightened her shoulders.

“I know,” he didn’t want to offend her. “It seems like it, if the news reports are to be believed.”

“The young one,” Norah asked. “Did you know her?”

“Sarah, yes,” he paused. “Better than I know most of the young ones. I’ve met them at communion and confession, but many have moved away from the church. Sarah sought me out during the last few weeks of her life, both did. That’s why I know so much about them, and there’s no harm in telling you what I know. What I do know of Sarah is her life wasn’t an easy one. Have you met her mother, she’s the one with all the cats?”

“I know who you’re talking about. You can smell the cottage before you see it. She strikes me as a bit odd in the head.”

“That’s her; the poor woman should’ve been hospitalized years ago, but her husband wouldn’t hear of it. You haven’t been here long enough to know any of their stories, have you?” He asked.

“No, I’ve just picked up bits and pieces of gossip from the locals,” she said.

“Would you like to hear the truth?”

“Yes, Father, indeed I would.”

He consulted the clock on the mantelpiece.

“We’ve a few hours before mass and their stories will take some time in telling, but if you’re willing I’ll tell you how each of them came to be lying prematurely in the grave. Then you can judge if they’re at rest; or if as I suspect, tonight will see the beginning of a nightmare.”

“I’d be glad to listen,” Norah croaked, her mouth was dry from the tension.

“It’s hard to believe I used to enjoy the solitude of my calling. My sleep was free of terrors and my days spent in restful study of my books. It seems so long ago now, and it was brought to an end by what I’m about to tell you.”

His voice, once he began was unstoppable. There was a gluttonous intent in his outpourings. Norah settled back in her chair and nestled deeper into the warmth of her coat. She tried to make her face remain impassive, and did nothing to interrupted as the sad panorama of the two lives unfolded.

Father Brown watched her, looking for signs of disbelief. He knew as he spoke, she thought he was exaggerating, or the events were clouded, as his mind grew feeble with age. Still, he couldn’t miss this opportunity to unburden himself, and if as he suspected, the night ahead was filled with horror, there’d be someone who knew the truth.

Tonight, he’d face his demons. Though this word was not one he’d use to describe the poor, restless souls in the churchyard. The trauma and turmoil each felt at the last moment wouldn’t have left them unaffected and this was what he dreaded most. It was the one thing he couldn’t divulge to Norah, the urgent, angry whispers he’d heard in the confessional, as each one vowed revenge on those who’d hurt them.

 

 

All Hallows – Chapter 2

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on October 13, 2017
Posted in: books, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Halloween, honoring the dead, Paranormal, scary, the true meaning of Halloween, Witchcraft, Witches, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

CHAPTER TWO

 

The air was colder than when she entered the church. Though it was still early in the afternoon, Norah saw the glitter of frost on the grass. Tying her headscarf under her chin, she hoisted the heavy shopping bag she carried into the crook of her arm, and set off the short distance to the priest’s house. Weaving her way along the path leading to the side gate, she couldn’t help, but notice how the style and size of the headstones changed over the years. The grander ones, carved into the form of angels in white granite from the local quarry, were outnumbered by the smaller, marble markers. Muttering a prayer for those lying beneath the earth in restless sleep, she crossed herself and tried to banish such thoughts. It’s the time of year, she decided, it sends the imagination wild, and it was any wonder. Everywhere you looked there were effigies of monsters or skeletons. It was enough to give somebody nightmares.

Flecks of old paint came away on her hands, as she pushed against the latch on the small gate. The hinges were rusted with age, and groaned protesting the intrusion, as she pushed it open. Tutting, she surveyed the grey flecks on her fingers, before running her hands down the front of her coat. It wouldn’t do to turn up for tea with dirty hands, and she was fussy about cleanliness. Like the gate, the front door was showing signs of wear, as she lifted the old-fashioned knocker and tapped twice.

“Come in, Norah, come in,” Father Brown opened the door and stood aside to let her pass.

Though stooped with age, he was much taller than her, and she felt dwarfed in his presence. The hallway was dark after the glare of the sun, so she stood for a moment to let her eyes adjust.

“This way,” he motioned, and she followed his dark silhouette. “I have the fire lighting in here,” he opened a door and led her into the sitting room. “I’ll be back in a moment,” he gestured to a chair. “You make yourself comfortable.”

“Thank you, Father,” Norah allowed the shopping bag to slip from her arm and took off her coat and scarf.

She heard him rattling about in the kitchen preparing the tea, and this gave her time to look around. Despite the blazing fire the room was chilly, and she rubbed her hands down her arms, trying to bring life back to her cold skin. Like the hallway, this room was shrouded in shadow, and seemed to come from another time. She knew it wasn’t a phoney attempt by some designer trying to replicate the Victorian era, but the way the furnishings had been for over a hundred years. The stuffed armchairs were comfortable, though faded with time. The arms showed the most sign of wear, as the brocade was worn and stuffing protruded through the fabric. Yellowing antimacassars draped over the back of each chair. On the mantelpiece above the fire, a black, ornate carriage clock ticked loud enough to make its presence felt. An old china cabinet held an assortment of cups and plates, and on top sat a stuffed owl in a glass dome.

“Here we are,” Father Brown shuffled in and put a stop to any further probing. “It’s going to be a bitter night,” he placed a tray on the coffee table.

She saw how his hands shook, as he reached for the teapot.

“Here, Father,” she stood. “Let me do it.”

He relinquished this task, and moved away to sit in the chair opposite.

“There you go,” she placed a cup and saucer on an occasional table beside him and offered the sugar bowl. For a while neither of them spoke, and she watched, as he stared into the flames. His face showed signs of strain and his brow furrowed, as though he was trying to remember something. His eyes had the haunted look she’d noticed developing over the past weeks.

“Are you all right, Father?” She asked.

“I’m fine, Norah,” he turned and looked at her. “Feeling my age, that’s all.”

She concentrated on stirring her tea. The only sound came from the clanking of the spoon against the sides of the cup.

“Are the graves troubling you, Father,” she asked. “The ones that won’t settle?”

He nodded, and fumbled in the pocket of his threadbare cardigan for a handkerchief. She noticed, as he wiped his eyes, how the veins showed on hands shrunken with age. Despite his years, his dark hair lost none of its colour with just a scattering of grey at the temples. Rather than giving him a more youthful look, it served to emphasise the pallor of his skin.

“I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, Father,” Norah didn’t know what to do. Should she stay sitting or make her excuses and leave?

“No, no,” he brushed aside her apology. “It’s nothing you said. I’m feeling a bit run down, and now with the worry…” he stopped and looked towards the window.

She knew he was picturing the graveyard.

“I heard some foolish talk,” Norah tried to brighten the mood. “You know how it is here, Father, with everyone caught up in everyone else’s business.”

“I’ve heard it too,” he turned back to her. “But what troubles me the most is how foolish is it?”

“Come now, Father,” she laughed. “Surely you don’t believe in those old wives’ tales?”

“I don’t” he paused. “At least I didn’t, until now.”

Norah shivered. Sensing her distress, he smiled.

“I’m not going to bother you with my nonsense,” he emptied his cup and held it out for a refill.

“I know it’s not nonsense, Father,” Norah picked up the teapot, glad of its warmth. “I’ve noticed how you’ve changed over the past few months. Perhaps, if you talked about it?”

“Perhaps, perhaps,” he sighed, and sipped at his tea.