Haunted Places

The Dark One stood amid storm tossed trees and watched as Annie sobbed over her own grave.

“I am so frightened, Dora,” she whispered. “Meg’s gone and I’m all alone. There is no one to guide me and I am weary. I want to lie down with you and sleep for the rest of eternity.”

The Dark One felt the spirits being moved by her plight. They came from out of the earth, from the sky and their voices echoed in the wind. His enemy was frightened, and he had a right to be so. As soon as he harnessed that girl’s power, he, once called Prince of Angels, would be as strong as the one calling himself God. Then the continuation of the world would be in his hands and he would wreak havoc on all who opposed him. Even now he felt those that lurked in the dark shadows drawing nearer, sensing his strength.

“Let me help you.”

Annie looked up, then shied back from his touch.

“You help me? All you have ever done is hurt anyone who has crossed your path. Why would you help me now, Lucifer?”

“I told you before. Do not speak that name.”

The skin rippled on his face threatening to expose his true features, and the fire in his eyes glowed, as he tried to control his rage.

“Don’t anger me, woman,” he warned. “You, who are without ally, cannot afford to turn down my offer.”

“An offer of eternal damnation?”

“That is not so. I will give you your life back, as promised. You will live out your allotted time and all you love will be restored.”

Annie looked down at the still, silent grave and the dark earth covering her sister.

“She was so young,” The Dark One picked up some of the soil and crumbled it between his fingers. “What a full life she could have lived, but for your selfishness; I would have destroyed the O Brien’s back then and all of this suffering could have been avoided. Yet even now you allow it to continue and another child has died because of him.”

“Then it is as I suspected, the child is dead?”

“A boy child,” The Dark One laughed.

Annie looked at him, disgusted.

“Well, you have to admit it’s amusing.”

“I find no merriment in the taking of life. Get out of my sight, Lucifer.”

This time the use of his given name had no effect on him.

“But it is your fault, if you would, but once admit it. You allow him to live and he will sire others. That woman, the one he calls wife, is not the only one he lies with.”

She could still hear his laughter as he faded back into the shadows. It was her fault, what he said was the truth. If she had given him her power all the suffering could have been avoided.

The house lay shrouded in night, as she moved towards it. All around her the good spirits beseeched her not to go there, but she was beyond reason. She moved silent as death up the steps towards the main door and stood in the shadows, waiting.

Liam groaned, as he drove up the driveway. The trees arched across his path; bending and swaying until he was sure they would scratch the paintwork of his car. He would have to see about cutting them down. A branch scraped across the roof as though reading his thoughts.

“Fuck,” he muttered, and put his foot down hard on the accelerator.

A shower of gravel, thrown up by the car wheels, heralded his arrival at the front door. Ducking his head against the storm, he ran up the steps. The key creaked, as he turned it, and before he closed the door, Annie glided by him. Inside the house was inky black, and he felt his way along the wall for a light switch. The light from the grand chandelier was harsh and lit up the streaks of blood at the bottom of the stairs. He ignored them and went towards his study. The house felt damp, a fault with the boiler, he thought, but he was too tired to correct it. The wait in the hospital seemed eternal. Four hours playing the devoted husband drained him. Hours when he could have been attending to better things. He smirked, thinking of what his dear wife referred to as his latest pillow friend. God, but women bored him. The wiles and whispered promises made his teeth itch. Whores, every one of them, but he made them pay and laughed when their words of love turned to screams of pain. Being the dumb creatures, they were, they came back for more; like whipped dogs cowering before their master.

Logs were piled beside the fire, so he threw some into the grate and set them alight. Taking his hankie from his pocket, he rubbed at his nose. The room smelled musty and a damp odour seemed to surround him.

Annie heard his every thought as though spoken and noticed how his hand shook as he filled a glass from a decanter.

I stayed as long as was necessary, he told himself. After all, the doctor said she would sleep for hours after the anaesthetic. No point in hanging around. The child was dead, best thing for everyone really. When she returned from the hospital, they could all go away for a few days as a family. Women liked that sort of things and she would soon forget the baby. Yes, a holiday would do him good, somewhere hot put a bit of colour into his skin. He held out his hands to inspect their paleness.

Outside despite the storm, the trees stretched skywards reaching out for the heavens. Fighting the force of the wind, they held their branches aloft and begged God to be merciful on one they loved. Even those who lived by the sea and knew well its ways; wondered why tonight of all nights, its voice was so loud. It roared and tossed, giant waves thundered towards the shore and shattered against rocks. The night creatures of forest and hedgerows covered their eyes and wept. “Will you abandon us?” The elements cried. “Will you let the one who was cast down have power over us, as you did to her who was part of us all?”

The heavens lay silent. Even the light from the few stars glowing through the blackness seemed to dim. They must stand alone and be Annie’s only hope. The trees called to the earth and all who inhabited it. From out of the forest came the first creatures. Fox and deer wild cats, rats and even owls worked side by side as they dug into Dora’s grave. Earth flew left and right as sharp claw and nail pierced the soil.

“Come child, come,” The spirits urged. “Your sister is in need of you.”

A small white hand forced its way through the earth and then another until soon, Dora was heaving herself up from the dank hole and running towards the house.

Annie could feel the changes occurring. The smell of her own body sickened her. It was of mould and decay. She knew her features must be frightening and when she touched her hair she cried, a shuddering, sobbing, pain-filled cry. Small tufts as dry as straw laced her fingers. This was his fault; she looked at Liam who had dropped his brandy at the sound. Up till now, she had not allowed him to see her, but that was about to change…

“Annie, Annie,” Dora ran up the steps of the house and tapped at the door. “Annie, let me in.”

Liam looked around, trying to see where the noise was coming from. Annie’s heart ached at the sound of the long-lost voice, but she did not move. The spirits were clever; they would try to distract her. The knocking continued, and Liam who was still shaking from the cry, got up to see what it was. Dora ran past him when he opened the door. The only thing he felt was the force of the wind. There was nothing there. Not for the first time did he question his choice of house. These old places were filled with creaks and groans. Shivering, he went back to the fire.

Annie held Dora and brushed away the dried earth from her face and picked little clumps from her hair, every trace of anger gone now she had her sister back.

“You have to come with me, Annie. Mamma says so.” The child looked up at her. “It is dark, and I am cold.”

“I will come with you, I promise, but not now. You must go back and wait for me.”

“I do not want to. I want to stay with you.”

Before Annie could answer, Liam banged his refilled glass down on the side table. Dora screamed.

“It is him, Annie, Hugh.”

“No,” Annie held her closer. “It is not Hugh; it is someone belonging to him.”

“He hurt me.”

“I know, my sweet, but he cannot hurt you anymore. He cannot even see you”

“He cannot, really, why?”

Annie shrugged, unsure of what to say, but this seemed great fun to Dora, and she crept closer to Liam. Had he been able to see the long dead child, he would have lost his mind. But then so would Annie. All she saw was a rosy-cheeked, blond-haired little girl with her face pressed against Liam’s. In truth, the nose almost touching his was stripped bare of flesh. The blue eyes sparkling with mischief were dark endless hollows, and the flowing hair, tattered tendrils framing the grinning skull.

“You hurt me,” Dora whispered and reached out towards his drink.

An invisible hand swept it from the table. Liam gaped at the fallen glass and spilled liquid.

Dora delighted with her prank, ran from the room and up the stairs. Sure, Annie would scold her; she hid in the shadows on the gallery.

Liam dropped to his knees and mopped at the stain on his Persian rug. The wind shook the shutters on the window and pried them loose. The sound of the wood hitting against the frame made him scream. From within the storm The Dark One watched the tableau and rubbed his hands with glee. Lightening struck the power lines plunging the house into darkness.

Liam, glad of the firelight, took the two ornate holders from the mantelpiece and lit the candles.

Annie crept up the stairs in search of her sister. When Dora heard her coming, she ran further into the house.

“Dora, come back here.”

“You have to find me,” the child giggled and climbed upwards.

Liam looked towards the ceiling and called out to his daughters to be quiet. It was then he remembered they were not there. He was apprehensive, not about ghosts or spirits, because he believed in nothing. Still, there was someone in the house. There was no mistaking the patter of footsteps on the floor above. He wished there were more lights. Despite piling logs on the flames, the fire seemed to lose its glow, and dark shadows crept from the corners of the room. It was no use; he would have to investigate. Taking one of the candlesticks, he moved towards the door.

The hall lay shrouded in moonbeams and darting shapes moved all around him. Leaves, he comforted himself, shadows of leaves being tossed about in the storm outside and reflecting on the floor. But these were nothing so innocent. From out of the darkness the lost souls urged him up, wanting to please their master and bring about Liam’s end. They knew she was up there. The one who could set them free as the master promised. But they were hindered in their work by the others; the ones who worked beside her. Time after time strong hands reached out and pulled them back into the shadows.

Liam moved up winching at each creaking board on the stairs. Somewhere above him a door banged, and he almost dropped the candle. His heart thudded against his ribs and he held the light higher. Was there something crouched at the gallery rail? Cold fear wandered down his spine, sweat coated his upper lip and he stood uncertain of what to do. For a moment all was quiet within the house, except for the sound of the rain on the roof, persistent and melancholic.

“Fuck this,” his voice shattered the silence. “You’re dead, do you hear me. Whoever you are, you’re dead when I get my hands on you.”

“Annie,” Dora came running from her hiding place. “He is going to kill us.”

“No, he is not,” she watched the flame as it moved closer. “Not this time, come.”

She led Dora into the children’s room. The dark was the same as the light to them and the child squealed with delight her fear forgotten when she saw the array of dolls.

“Now, stay here and play,” Annie said. “I will lead him away.”

Dora nodded and picked up the nearest doll.

“Look at me,” Annie turned her face towards her. “I mean what I say. You must stay here. No matter what you hear, Promise.”

Dora nodded again and Annie wagged her finger at her.

“Say you promise. Cross your heart and hope to…”

Dora’s fingers on her lips stopped her.

“Do not say that, Annie. Remember the last time?”

Annie remembered too well and after Dora assured her, she would stay put, she went in search of Liam. Which was no hard feat, as he stumbled along the corridor, a candle in one hand and a small marble statue in the other by way of a weapon? Annie ran by him and up the next flight of stairs towards the attic.

Liam raised the hand holding the statue and wiped his forehead. His shirt clung to his back and the wool from his pants chaffed his sweat-soaked thighs. Every nerve in his body screamed at him to get out, but something was urging him on. A sinister seductiveness surrounded him pulling him towards it. The door to the attic stairs swung noiselessly open and his feet moved forward, despite his terror. Unbroken veils of cobwebs blocked his path and he pushed them aside with the statue. White silken gossamer clung to his sleeves and about his shoulders, making him glow against the black background. Someone stood silhouetted by the window.

“Come out of the shadows. I’m warning you,” Liam raised the statue higher.

Annie walked towards him, the Annie of old with her waist length hair and winning smile. For a moment Liam was taken aback, until she spoke.

“Welcome, I have been waiting for you,” leaning over, she blew the candle out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cora nodded and turned to go back to her ironing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, God,” Cora asked. “What is it?”

“I am sorry.”

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

“Who are you? What are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

“What the fuck happened to that?”

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

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

“Are you alright, Missus?”

“I’m not well,” she managed to say.

“Let me help you.”

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

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

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

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

“I’m pregnant.”

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

“No, really. I’m all right.”

He put the glass on the bedside table.

“Would you like me to ring your husband?”

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

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

“You saw the cottage?”

“Yes.”

“What do you make of it?”

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

“No, but I heard stories.”

“What kind of stories?”

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

“You mean, in the pub?”

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

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

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

“Please, I have to know.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Then she’s still alive.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“When you’re finished preening.”

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

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

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

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

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

“Of course.”

Once he was gone, Marie turned to Rachael.

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

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

“Then go now, while he’s away.”

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

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

“But what if I should run into him?”

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

“Thanks, you’re a doll.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, dear.”

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

There was silence at the other end of the line.

“Marie, are you still there?”

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

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

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

“Do you know what happened to her?”

“She was put in a home.”

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

“No, dear, just old.”

“So, who put her there, a relative?”

“No, not a relative.”

“Then who?”

“I’m afraid I can’t answer that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, no,” Marie gasped.

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

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

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

“Yes, anything.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, okay.”

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

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

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

“Okay, what do you want me to do?”

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

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

“Go on,” she waved at Marie.

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

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

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

“That was close,” Rachael whispered.

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

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

“No,” Cora said.

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

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

“I’m afraid so, my dear.”

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

The piece of ceramic was stuck to Cora’s fingers, so she had to wipe away her tears with the back of her hand. It was useless, shattered beyond repair. She gathered the pieces into her cupped hand and dropped them into the kitchen bin. The blue of the Virgin’s veil was still visible, even in the dark recess of the black, plastic liner. The glue made webs of her fingers, and she walked to the sink. The warm water and liquid soap did little to remove it, and she knew it would take days before she managed to pick it free. Even the cloth she used to wipe the table down stuck to her fingers.

“Stupid thing,” she pulled it free, but it left pieces of cotton behind.

She sat at the table and slowly lifted the material from her skin. The tears splashing on her hand surprised her. She had not realised she was crying again. But then, she was always crying. It was a sort of sick hobby and gave her something to do during the long nights when her children lay asleep, and her husband lay, God knows where.

It took little to put him in bad humour, and since they moved into the new house, his temper was worse. She knew the renovations were costing him a fortune, but she played no part in his decisions. He chose the house and uprooted them from everyone they knew. Now they would be made to pay if anything went wrong. It was so unfair. She tried to be a good wife, a good mother, but nothing she did ever pleased him. Her stomach rumbled and she brought her hand down to soothe it. She had not eaten since breakfast and she gone without dinner the night before, as she hated to eat in front of him. It only gave him an excuse to mock her.

“Still going to your fat class?” He would say, scorning her attempts at slimming.

Her eyes strayed to the bin in the corner. Tonight, she really upset him. The holy water font was a farewell present from her neighbours, who all knew of her commitment to her faith and she hung it inside the front door. The sight of it sent Liam into a rage, and she had to block her ears and thank God the children were asleep. He cursed her for her bad taste, as he hurled the font onto the marble floor, and she groaned aloud, as the images of mother and child exploded at her feet. Not done with cursing her, he cursed her religion, the day he met her and the ideals of a judgemental society that kept him tied to her.

Then he stormed off and left her crouched on the hall floor, picking up the pieces.

It was late now; well past midnight, and she was weary. The kitchen, yet untouched, grew colder. Outside the autumn wind sent leaves scuttling across the windows and she shivered. The lighting was much too low for a room that size, and threw the corners into trembling, threatening shadows. She frightened herself with images of dark cowled figures lurking there. It was time for bed. She rose and switched off the light, not daring to look back into the darkness. The grand chandelier in the hall was restored to its former glory and its crystals cast diamond shapes on the floor beneath. Small replicas hung from the walls and it was these lighted the stairs. They would be left burning until Liam returned home if he returned.

The stained-glass window was cleaned, and she stopped at the gallery rail and looked at it. They had been in the house for over a month and she was still in awe of the scene it depicted. A young girl with flowing dark hair who held out her hands before her in what Cora imagined, was a vain attempt to ward off the great advancing beast.

“Poor child,” she whispered and brought her hand once again to her stomach, nauseous now from lack of food.

It was past eight when she woke the next morning. Liam’s side of the bed lay smooth and untouched. She groaned and rolled onto her side. It was another Saturday and at least there was no school run, and no hoards of workmen around the place. Running her fingers through her hair, she kicked off the covers and went to rise. A wave of nausea overwhelmed her, and she ran for the bathroom with a hand clasped over her mouth. There was little in her stomach, and her body shook as she retched. Her quivering fingers sought out the washbasin, and she managed to locate a face towel. She wiped the bile from her lips and sat shivering on the bare floor.

“Oh no,” she sobbed. “He’ll kill me.”

“Who’ll kill you, Mam?” Laura stood in the doorway.

Cora eased her way up and held onto the washbasin for support.

“It’s nothing. I am just being silly. I’ve been sick on the new paintwork.”

“He can’t kill you for that.”

“No, I told you I was being silly.”

They walked back into the bedroom and climbed into bed. Cora was still shaking from the shock and glad of the warmth of her daughter’s body. The girls were going to a birthday party this afternoon, so she could rest then. Although she hadn’t had a period in over five months, she assumed herself her swollen stomach was because of her strict diet or fluid retention and the slight fluttering within, nerves Anyway, she was probably blowing it all out of proportion. It was a bug of some sort. It had to be.

The house was quiet when she returned from dropping the girls off. Liam had obviously gone on one of his binges, so it could be days before he returned home. She secretly enjoyed these times. When he was away, they had more fun, more freedom and she did not feel as uptight. Her thoughts strayed to the paper bag in her purse.

The white plastic cylinder of the pregnancy test lay on the sink top. She stood and walked to the basin but avoided looking down in case the blue line showed. Was it just the light she wondered, as she studied her reflection in the mirror; made her look old and the circles under her eyes so dark? She glanced down towards the test kit. The blue line showed clear against the white background. The realisation made her stomach turn, and she had to take deep breaths to still the nausea. Beyond tears, she dumped the cylinder in the waste bin and staggered towards the bedroom. She felt trapped, and pulled at the neck of her jumper, gasping for air. She had to get out.

It had grown colder. A biting wind hurried clouds, swollen with the promise of rain, across a darkening sky. The garden lay grey and wind-swept before her. This was the first time she had walked there. The plot of land on either side of the house was huge, but it was impossible to judge the size of the back garden, even from the upstairs windows. It was so overgrown, and, in a way, she was glad of this. At least Liam had not infected it with any of his ideas. Large thorn bushes blocked her way and she tugged the branches aside, pricking and scratching her hands in the process. Some caught in her hair, and she pulled them free uncaring of the tufts left behind in the struggle. She made her way towards the trees at the end of the garden. Something told her she would be safe there, and free from prying eyes. Once through the tangle of branches she found herself in a clearing. The grass was waist high, but there was a small, uneven footpath, so she picked her way along the large stones. She was sweating, despite the cold and her heart thudded painfully. She felt hunted and glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one was following.

The land continued onwards for she guessed about four acres. Her legs shook and a couple of times she thought she would collapse. Now, on the border of the garden and the wood, she stopped and rested her forehead against a stout tree trunk.

“Oh, thank you,” she whispered to the wood, glad of its firmness in a day that was fast becoming surreal.

There was no sound other than the sighing of the breeze. Deep shadows cloaked the woods, and she knew it would be foolish to venture further. The light was fading, but she felt safe here hidden by the trees. Her thoughts were interrupted as a light was switched on upstairs in the house. Its beam cut a pathway through the gloom, and she knew Liam was home.

“What will I do?” she asked.

She looked around, searching for the answer on the darkening air. Sentinel spirits, who had watched throughout time, heard her anguished question and whispered to one another. The wind suddenly whipped up again and skimmed across the grass parting it before her. It was then she noticed the top of the tombstone. The wind blew stronger catching at her clothes and pushing her towards it. The stone, what she could see of it, was blackened and scarred. The writing if there was an inscription, was hidden. Her movements were dreamlike as she knelt and pulled aside centuries of leaf mould. There was something carved there, but it was faded and hard to read in the dim light. She used a twig to poke away old spider cocoons and bits of dried mud. When the carvings were clear, she traced her fingers across each letter and spelled out the words. “Annie Ryan aged 17. Dora Ryan aged 6. September 1653. In restless sleep.

“So young,” Cora whispered

She glanced across the garden towards the house where Liam would be waiting, and her hand went instantly to her stomach.

“What’s this?” Liam held the test tube in front of her.

It was so close she smelt the chemicals and urine inside it. Her stomach lurched, her throat contracted, as she answered.

“I had to do a pregnancy test.”

“Why?”

“I’m pregnant.”

“How the fuck can you be pregnant?”

She did not bother to answer.

“I mean, when?” He dropped the tube into the bin and ran his hands through his hair.

“About five months, I think.”

“Really, he smirked, “And how drunk was I at the time?”

“Please, Liam,” she tried to put her arms around him, but he pushed her away.

“Get rid of it.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Get rid of it.”

“This is a child, your child.”

“I don’t care. I told you I didn’t want any more children.”

“It might be a boy,” she pleaded.

“It might also be a girl. I do not really care what it is. Get rid of it.”

“No, it’s a sin. I won’t do it”

She tried to run, but he caught her hair and dragged her back.

“You had better do as I say or God himself won’t save you.”

“I won’t kill my child,” she stabbed at his hand and felt her nails slice into his skin.

“Bitch,” he roared, lunging at her.

She stumbled, but managed to keep upright and then she ran, down the stairs out the main door and back through the thicket of branches, uncaring of the thorns reefing her face. The trees in the wood seemed to be spreading their branches wider, willing her to come to them. She stopped when she reached them and hid. So far there was no sign of Liam. Her face stung and she winched when she felt the puckered skin. She knew she had no choice but to return to the house. The girls were being brought home by their friend’s mother, and she would have to be there to shield them from their father’s temper. Still, there was plenty of time, so she walked a little further. She had not intended to return to the tombstone, but now she was beside it. Her heart ached when she remembered the ages of the girls’ buried there, and she sank to the ground.

“What will I do,” she whispered. “He wants me to kill my child.”

She thought of her aged parents and decided against troubling them. There was no one else. Though she had always been frightened of Liam, that fear was tangible. This new terror took her breath away.

“But I won’t do it. No matter what he says or does. I won’t let anything happen to this child.”

The tears that were threatening spilled over, and she laid her head against the tombstone.

“I’m frightened,” she sobbed. “God help me, I’m so frightened.”

The loud laughter of children drifted towards her on the quiet air and she knew her daughters had returned. Wiping the tears from her face, she forced a smile and walked back to the house. This time she was ready to do battle.

The children were full of stories about the party. They were over stimulated, and it was difficult to get them to settle that night. Even Laura, who was caught up with news of her friends, failed to notice her mother’s pale, tear-streaked face. Cora was glad when they finally drifted off to sleep. Liam locked himself in the study and she was spared his anger for now. She showered and got ready for bed. With a little luck he would sleep elsewhere. The moon was shining bright enough to light the room, so she left the curtains open. She lay huddled beneath the covers and prayed harder than she had ever done. From far away she heard the creaking of floorboards and the heavy footfalls on the stairs.

Liam stood silhouetted in the doorway.

“I’ll be sleeping in the spare room from now on,” he said, then unsure if she was awake. “Did you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Good and I meant what I said. Get rid of it.”

Cora started to cry once the door closed.

Liam pulled a duvet and pillows from the linen cupboard. He would have a makeshift bed that night but, in the morning, she could make up the room properly. He was sick of his wife, sick of her holier than thou attitude.

Later, when the night grew deeper and the things belonging to the dark were about, something stirred. Deep beneath the earth an ancient soul heard Cora’s tears for her unborn child and started digging its way towards the surface.

Marie Walters’ dropped the armful of envelopes onto her desk and shook her head at the flashing red light on the answering machine. Another Monday morning in the offices of O Brien and Costello, Solicitors, was about to begin. The light continued to blink, vying for her attention with the unopened post. She sighed and brushed a grey hair from her forehead. There were nine unanswered calls, and these were best dealt with first. She knew, even as she pressed the play button on the machine, what to expect. The weekend was a peculiarly violent one in the city, according to the news reports, and the clients of O Brien and Costello would have contributed to this in so many ways. The first caller was almost incoherent from either drink or drugs.

“I want to see. What his name?” he inquired from someone in the background, then. “Oh yeah, O Brien, that’s it. Hey, let go, I’m on the ‘fuckin’ phone.” His companion giggled. “Fuck it, I’ll ring on Monday.”

Marie heard him struggle to replace the receiver. She deleted the call and pressed for the next. One by one the scum of the city managed to leave their name and ask for an appointment or hung up in confusion. The list of calls she had to return made her stomach turn. The names were always the same and every one of them was filth, human garbage that stalked the city by night, preying on the unwary, the old and the innocent. She looked up as the door to the outer office opened and Rachael; the junior secretary came in.

“Morning, Marie,” she hung her jacket and came to peer over the older woman’s shoulder at the list of names. “Nothing new there.”

“No, dear, there never is.”

“Would you like me to ring them?”

“Would you mind? I have all this to sort,” Marie pointed to the post.

“No, of course not; I know how they bother you.”

“Thank you, dear.”

Marie turned to the pile of envelopes as Rachael began to dial the first number on the list. The envelopes were sorted by size. Legal briefs were in the large brown envelopes and the smaller assortment of multicoloured ones, most with the writing almost illegible and marked personal, would be from Mr. O Brien’s special clients. The women he had helped over the years, and who remained ever grateful.

“Well, get him for me,” Rachael rolled her eyes and pointed at the receiver in her hand.

Marie was glad she did not have that job. Most of the clients would be still drunk or badly hung over, and she hated the foul language of the wives or, as they were now known, partners, and the screaming of children in the background.

Her heart jumped as she picked up the next envelope. It was addressed to Gerald Costello. Although the nameplate on the door proclaimed this indeed was the office of O Brien and Costello, Gerald Costello had long ceased to be. Poor Gerald, she thought, as she put the envelope aside.

“Pack of bastards,” at the opposite desk Rachael slammed the phone down. “You know,” she turned to Marie. “I’m sick of this job. I have applied for others, but so far, no luck. You should leave too. No one has to put up with this.”

“Yes, dear,” Marie went back to reading the letter in her hand.

She knew Rachael was right, but she was too old to change. Turning sixty next birthday, hardly made her a good, long term prospect as secretary. Her boss, Liam O Brien, reminded her of this on many occasions. And as far as Rachael was concerned, well, the poor girl was unlikely to be head hunted. She was employed to boost the boss’s ego, and while the never-ending, mini-skirted legs and large breasts made her a showpiece; she was not office material. Oh, she could make coffee and answer phones, but when it came to the legal work, she was lost. Still, she was not a bad girl, Marie thought, and her heart is in the right place.

Morning, ladies,” Liam O Brien swept through the door and snatched the bundle of post Marie held out to him.

“Morning,” Rachael sang, as she rose to plug in the kettle for his coffee.

Marie took the appointment book from the desk and followed him into his office. She read aloud the list of names and times, as he scanned the post. He deposited a handful of the more colourful envelopes into his briefcase before turning to her.

What time is my first appointment?”

“Ten-o-clock.”

“O.k. leave me alone until then,” he waved her away. “And see that I’m not disturbed.”

“Fine.”

“Oh, Marie.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You’re looking the worse for wear, heavy weekend?”

“No, not really.”

“Just old age, eh?” He winked

She managed a tight smile.

“Yes, that’s probably it.”

Her hand shook as she turned the doorknob.

“You know something, Marie?”

She turned back.

“When you finally leave here, I’ll really miss the long, intimate conversations we have.”

“Yes, I imagine you will,” she slipped through the door and pulled it closed behind her.

“You, o.k.?” Rachael asked.

“Fine,” Marie tried to control the trembling in her hands.

“Did he have a go at you again?”

“No, really, I’m fine.”

“I’ll make you some tea.”

Soon a steaming mug was placed in front her. She sipped and grimaced. It was much too sweet, and she was about to remark to this, when she noticed the concern in the girl’s eyes. Ah, yes, sweet tea was good for shock, and she was shocked. She sipped again and wrapped her hands around the cup. The warmth renewed her, and she blotted out the sound of the ringing phone and the voice from the other desk. It was wonderful when Gerald was alive. Her old boss knew how to treat his staff and she had worked for him for over ten years, almost from the start of his career. A lovely man, she was guest of honour at his wedding and been there through the celebrations at the birth of his two sons. Having never married, she regarded him as a son of sorts. Where had it all gone wrong? She looked towards the door to the other office. When Liam O Brien came on the scene, that is when. He was at law school with Gerald and managed to worm his way into a partnership. A rude, inept man, who she had heard, managed to blunder his way through school by a series of staged mishaps and blackmail. Well, what he lacked in brains, he made up for in cunning. He amassed his list of clients through the legal aid system. People, some real, some fabricated and not only the human vermin, but also those who were unable to pay, passed through his hands every day. The good, the innocent, fared far worse than the bad, as he feared those who could hurt him. So the man, who for the first time committed an offence or was entirely without blame, was likely to receive six months in prison, while one of the regulars, who beat and robbed an elderly person, walked from the courtroom with six months probation.

She should leave. She knew she should, but then what; endless days of nothing, but waiting for death? There were no relatives to speak of, just a distant cousin who knew nothing of her existence and no friends. She knew having devoted most of her life to her work and possessing no outside interests, other than her small garden flat, made her appear standoffish. Her thoughts were interrupted by a thud on her desk. She looked up into the wicked eyes she had ever seen.

“He in?” the man rested his tattooed knuckles on her desk and gestured with his head towards O Brien’s door.

Marie’s stomach lurched at the smell of stale beer from his breath.

“I don’t believe you have an appointment, Mr. O Reilly.”

She knew all the clients by sight, but O Reilly was the worst of all. The terror of everyone in the housing estate where he lived, he was known for picking fights. Every woman with a husband or son dreaded him.

“I don’t need a ‘fuckin’ appointment. He told me to call in when I was ‘passin’.”

He is busy at the moment. Would you like to wait?” She could see where a fresh cut had opened on the man’s forehead and the dried blood caked on his eyebrow.

“Fuck that,” he stormed towards the office door and threw it open.

“What the hell is going on?” Liam O Brien replaced the phone and spun in his chair to face the intruder.

“I’m sorry,” Marie gasped. “I tried to stop him.”

“Never mind,” Liam waved the man to a chair and to Marie. “Get out.”

She heard the brute snigger as she closed the door. “‘Fuckin’ stuck-up bitch.”

The rest of the day passed by as normal, with the usual batch of flotsam and jetsam gliding by her desk and she tried to block out their insults and form of greeting. By lunchtime, the office closed from one to two fifteen, both Rachael and Marie needed a break.

“I suppose it’s useless asking you to come to the pub?”

Marie always brought sandwiches and ate them in the small park across the street. Now, looking at her young colleague, she decided it was time for a change.

“Actually, my dear, I’d like a large, sweet sherry.”

“Whoa,” Rachael laughed, linking her arm through Marie’s. “You’re really letting your hair down.”

“You know, I think I am,” Marie thought of the grey tresses she wore in a tight bun. “I may even have it cut.”

She joined in Rachael’s laughter, as they strolled along the street.

Liam O Brien tapped his pen on the desk and stared into space. O Reilly just left with a handful of money he could ill afford, but the man was useful and expected payment for his services. That bloody house was proving to be expensive. If he had known how costly the repairs were going to be, he would not have wasted so much time in conning the old woman out of it. The idea of living in a mansion seemed a dream, but it was bleeding him dry over the past month. Everything from the electrics to the plumbing needed to be replaced. Many of the windows were beyond repair and it had taken a specialised order to replace them. Still, he thought of the fine Italian marble floor he had put in the hall; it was coming along nicely. If only he could complete it without bankrupting himself.

Marie was relishing her first pub lunch. She watched the assortment of people before her as she ate. She often wondered; when she passed by these places, what the cliental was like. Who were these people who delved daily into the dark recesses of the foul-smelling pubs? She found to her delight; they were not so alien, just ordinary workers. From the men in their business suits to the multicoloured women who ate soup and crunched on toasted sandwiches, and the rather dapper gent who’d raised his hat to her as she entered, they were all, well…rather normal. She felt quite the voyeur, as she sipped her second sherry.

“There’s something I’ve always wanted to ask you.” Rachael said.

“Yes?”

“It’s about the name of the company. Who is, or was, Mr. Costello?”

“Ah, yes, dear Gerald. He was such a nice man.”

“What happened to him?”

Marie studied her for a moment torn by indecision then, brushing an invisible crumb from her jacket, murmured. “It was a long time ago.”

“Tell me,” Rachael pleaded.

“Very well, but I expect you to keep it to yourself.”

“Cross my heart,” she made a sign across her breast.

“Gerald started the company. O Brien did not come on the scene until ten years later, but when he did things started to go downhill. He was not happy with land deals and the like. He wanted money and he wanted it quickly. It was he who started the criminal cases. Gerald disagreed and there were a couple of shouting matches in the office. Well, one-night O Brien asked him to his house for dinner. I heard all this through the intercom. It seemed from the way O Brien spoke, an attempt at compromise.”

Rachael nodded.

“So, to make a long story short, Gerald’s car was found the next morning. It crashed into a tree. Gerald was found unconscious at the wheel and stinking, so I am told, of alcohol. There was worse to come. He was taken to hospital and treated for minor wounds, but when the men arrived from the garage to tow away the car, they found the body of a young boy pinned beneath it.”

“Oh, my God,” Rachael gasped.

“Yes, and of course the newspapers had a field day. Prominent local solicitor put on trial for murder. You can imagine. In the end he was found guilty of manslaughter. Though he professed his innocence, he was sentenced to seven years in prison. I used to visit him, but he was no longer the Gerald I had known. He was broken in body and mind. His face etched with scars from the beating he received from fellow inmates, who despised the law. It was at this time he learned of his wife’s affair. That was the final straw; they found him hanging in his cell.”

“How awful, who was she having the affair with? Was it someone he knew?”

Marie looked at her, not bothering to answer.

“You don’t mean…?” Rachael looked at her wide-eyed. “Not…”

“Yes, me dear, I’m afraid so.”

“The rotten bastard.”

That is the title I have so often given him and it is one I use to excuse his numerous character flaws. Liam O Brien is probably descended from a long line of bastards.”

“It’s so sad,” Rachael’s eyes misted over.

“The saddest part of all was that no one would listen to me when I tried to tell them,” Marie adjusted her neck scarf and fiddled with the contents of her handbag.

“Tell them what?”

“About Gerald, of course, he never touched alcohol.”

Meg groaned and rubbed at her aching back. The two nights they spent within the forest were cold and her old bones ached from sleeping on the hard grass floor. The weather stayed fine, but the early morning frost froze them to the marrow. Their only shelter was a crude canopy of leaves and fallen branches that did little to protect them from the cold. The children, as in all times, adjusted well, though Rose was quieter than normal. Her mind was filled with worry about her sisters. Meg tried to assure her they would be all right, but the words were stilted. For she heard a death cry carried on the breeze, its sound clear as solemn church bells, tolling through the quiet of the night.

Meg picked the last of the autumn berries from the bushes. These would have to do for the children’s breakfast. The food she packed was soon eaten and they had to resort to what they could forage from the forest. The children slept on and she was loath to wake them, but the sun would soon be up, and the open road called to her. The sooner they found Pat, the sooner they could rescue Annie. She would not think about the cries she heard. There could be many explanations for the sound, but still…

The children woke shivering, and the handful of berries they received did little to lift their mood. Soon they were on their way. As always, they kept within the forest. By now they were clear of the village and the rumoured roadblocks proved to be just that. No one tried to stop them, and the road remained bare with no sign of passing traffic.

Meg felt weary. The last few days were the hardest she had ever known. But it was not just the tiredness of old age that bothered her, but the weariness in both heart and soul. She felt the evil all around her. The air felt cloying, and at times, it seemed as though she was walking through a thick fog. The Dark One was working his evil, trying to delay her.

The forest was dark, despite the many fallen leaves. The bare branches seemed like skeleton arms that might reach down at any moment and pluck her from the earth. Shadows darted among the trees and strange creatures seemed to keep pace with them as they walked. There were indistinct cries and growls from far away, and she blessed herself and mumbled a prayer for protection.

They walked until the sun was well up, and now the children were tired. The bank of a stream proved an ideal resting place, and Meg dipped her handkerchief in the water and rubbed the stains of the blackberries from the children’s faces. She eased her way down onto a rock and watched as they played. They would soon be complaining of hunger. The air was much fresher here and the birdsong relaxed her. Her mind filled with thoughts of Annie and Dora and she swallowed hard, fighting back tears.

Sudden squeals and shouts from the children roused her. Paul was swaggering towards her with the body of a rabbit held aloft. He, like many of his kind, was a skilled hunter. His snare worked within minutes, and he beamed with pride at the look of relief on Meg’s face.

He cleaned and skinned the rabbit, while Meg lit a fire. Soon the smell of roasting meat made their stomachs rumble, as Meg turned the makeshift spit. Each thought the meal of roasted rabbit and water from the stream was the best they had ever had.

It was a much livelier group that set off that morning. The feeling of oppression lifted, and even Meg’s back did not ache as much. Rose and Paul carried the magpie, that cawed in annoyance, when they swung the basket. The sun, though watery, warmed them and their clothes soon lost their dampness. The meal they had just eaten would keep them going for most of the day. Meg would not have to worry until nightfall.

“Meg help me” the sobbing seemed to come from all around her. She spun, trying to find the source. The forest lay in stillness, and she held her breath. Her heart pounded against her breast when she heard the menacing laughter and Annie’s screams. “Oh God help me, Meg. I am in agony.”

Meg stumbled to a tree trunk. The very breath was taken from her body. Annie was in terrible pain. Dear lord, Meg prayed, take me, leave the child be. There was no answer, just the sighing of the leaves.

“Meg,” Paul came crashing through the undergrowth. “Come quickly. There is a cart coming.”

The children were hiding behind the trees, watching as the cart and driver approached. The wheels thundered on the rough track, as the driver whipped his horses onwards. It was almost upon them when…

“Pat, it is Pat,” Rose ran from her hiding place and waved her arms at the approaching vehicle.

The horses whinnied and snorted, as he pulled tight on the reins. Clouds of dust rose into the air, driven there by the skidding hoofs. Pat’s look of surprise on seeing Rose was soon replaced by fear, as Meg came walking towards him. Without waiting for an explanation, he lifted the children onto the back of the cart and helped Meg to climb up beside him. He flicked at the reins, and they set off. Meg whispered to him, as they rode, not wanting the children to hear. His eyes opened wide in alarm at her news.

“I knew something was wrong,” he whispered, shaking his head, and spurring the horses onwards. “I will kill those O Brien’s. So, help me.”

“They are in the grip of The Dark One.”

“What do you mean?”

“The very Devil himself is among us,” Meg crossed herself. “He has taken the form of a man.”

Pat’s head was reeling. It had to be that Tanas fellow. He was the only stranger in the district.

“We will save them, Meg,” Pat’s strong hand closed over Meg’s own and she held on tight, drawing strength from his touch.

“I pray to God we can. That we are not too late.”

Annie was forced up from the straw. She cried aloud as a dress was pulled over her head and scraped over the scars on her back. Her toes dragged along the stone floor, as they half-carried her. Some of the cuts opened from the rough handling, and she left small drops of blood in her wake. The jailors jeered at her shorn head.

A wave of noise erupted, as she was taken from the mill. Her death was to be a great occasion. The sunlight stung her eyes, as she had become used to the dark, and the many figures before her seemed faceless. Some laughed and pointed. Children ran towards her, wanting to touch the witch. Annie kept her head bowed and allowed her eyes to adjust.

The first thing she saw was the wood. For a moment she thought she was at the steps of the gallows, but when she allowed her eyes to travel upwards, she saw this was not the case. A stout pole stood in the centre of a woodpile. The villagers were still adding to it. The procession stopped, and she looked around at the people who gathered. Many of them were old friends of her family, and she tried to make eye contact.

“Well, Mistress Ryan,” The Dark One walked towards her. “It is time to pay for your sins.”

“I am innocent,” Annie cried, and this drew mumblings from the crowd.

“You are the leader of the witches and you must pay,” he snarled, and leaning closer whispered. “Unless you have changed your mind?”

Annie shook her head.

“Take her up.”

Annie was forced towards a ladder on the side of the pile. She stumbled on the rungs and was carried up by one of the guards. They tied her to the stake and wound strong chains around her body. Her hands were tied behind her back, so she was forced to look at the crowd. A shout of “silence” rang out and an uneasy hush fell. Then, The Dark One spoke.

“A witch with power as strong as Mistress Ryan must be burned; the fire will nullify all her evil.”

“No,” Annie strained against her bonds. “I am not a witch. Help me.” She looked at Mary and Hugh who stood at the end of the woodpile. “Mary, for the love of God, tell them I am innocent.”

Mary shrugged and Hugh smiled and winked at her.

“Bastards,” she screamed. “It is you who should be in my place.”

“Enough witch,” The Dark One motioned to the guards.

There were four men in all, and each held a torch of blazing pitch. At his signal, they threw the torches into the piles of branches and shrubs between the timbers. The dry kindling caught fire instantly. Flames crackled and leapt to other branches.

“There is plenty of green wood beneath,” Annie heard Hugh’s voice above the noise.

She knew the green wood was damp and would take longer to burn. She would suffocate. Amid the haze of acrid smoke, The Dark One appeared. He seemed to be hovering above the ground. The crowd drew back, some crying, others screaming in fear.

“I will ask you once more. Denounce your God. Give me your power.”

“Never,” Annie managed to croak.

“Then I curse you,” his voice sounded like thunder. “You will die, but you will never know rest until the last male in his line is gone,” he pointed towards Hugh.

The flames were licking about her toes and she tried to draw up her feet as he continued.

“You will feel each flame. You’ will not die until the fire reaches your heart.”

“If that be the case,” she gasped, the smoke stung her throat. “My voice will be the last one the O Brien’s ever hear. I swear this by all that is holy.”

Most of the crowd ran away. But the O Brien’s and the guards all heard her words. Mary was carried away in a faint. Not only had Annie’s curse upset her, but also the sight of her intended husband levitating above the ground before disappearing was too much.

She was not there to hear Annie’s screams as the ends of her dress caught fire and the flames scored her skin. Neither did she witness how the flesh on her feet turned black, as the toes curled upwards.

“Help me Meg,” Annie cried. “I am in agony.”

Even the guards took flight at this, and she was left alone to burn in the still morning air. She screamed and writhed against the chains. The flesh on her legs melted exposing the bones and sinews. The flames continued upwards leaping towards her face.

“Oh, Jesus, Miss.”

Annie saw a shadowy figure running below her.

“I will get water,” the young guard shouted, and in seconds the flames hissed, as he threw water on them.

. The fire burned fiercely.

“Let me be,” she screamed. “I am destroyed.”

He continued to throw buckets full of water towards her. The flames died in places, and she was able to see him.

“Look, look at me.”

He stopped and looked up at her. His face was blackened from the smoke, and there were tracks where his tears flowed. He saw the flesh was burnt beyond repair. Blood and fat dripped from her fingers.

“The Dark One cursed me. I am to feel each pain.”

He shook his head before running away. Annie moaned and arched her back, as the flames reached her thighs.

“Close your eyes Miss,” she heard him call. “It is all I can do.”

His aim was true, and the spear pierced Annie’s heart. She gasped, and her eyes opened wide for a moment. Then she smiled at him, before her head fell forward.

They came for Annie at daybreak. The night was uneventful. There were no demons sent to torment her, but she lay awake listening to every sound. Her mind reached out to Meg and Rose, but she found nothing. She was beginning to believe they were dead. Strangely she was beyond tears. There came instead, a dreadful acceptance that all was lost, and she would die.

Now, she followed her jailors without struggle back to that awful room and sat unmoving in the chair into which they tied her. The Dark One entered followed by Hugh O Brien, but she refused to meet their eyes.

“Good morning, cousin,” Hugh called to her.

She sat straight and proud. His hand gripped her hair forcing her head back, and he hissed into her face.

“I said, good morning, cousin.”

She could smell the stale beer on his breath and his spittle flew against her face. Tears stung her eyes from the pain, but still she did not answer, but returned his hate-filled gaze with one of her own. She gritted her teeth to keep from screaming when his hold tightened, and she felt the hairs being ripped from her scalp.

“Enough,” The Dark One roared. “There is work to be done.”

Hugh pushed her away with a snort and she banged her head on the wooden wing of the chair. The ropes on her hands made it impossible for her to reach up and rub at her throbbing temple, and she blinked trying to clear her vision of the flashing lights dancing before her. She was so intent on this; she never heard the door open and was surprised to hear her name being called.

“Dora, dearest,” Annie tried to smile. “Tell these men whatever they ask of you.”

“They said you are a witch, Annie, but I know you are not.”

“That does not matter, just pretend I am.”

“No, Annie, I cannot.”

“Why dearest.”

“Because it is a lie.”

“But it is just a little lie and God will not mind.”

“Oh, but he will, Annie. He told me.”

“Told you, when?”

“Last night when I was asleep. He told me I was going to heaven to be with Ma and Da, because I was a good girl.”

“Yes, but not now, dearest, not so soon.”

“Yes, Annie, he promised me.”

The Dark One snarled and dragged Dora to the wall. Her clothes were ripped from her until she stood naked and shivering. Annie begged him to let her go, but he ignored her pleas and set about his task with relish. Dora was chained with her face towards the wall, her arms and legs spread-eagled.

“Now you will witness what I do to those who disobey me.”

Annie looked at Dora’s frail white body. It was as delicate as a willow branch and would break as easily. Hugh walked towards her sister, swishing a thick stick.

“No,” Annie’s scream mingled with Dora’s as he brought the rod hard across her naked back.

Annie saw the flesh open and blood glowed against the whiteness of the skin. Dora withered in agony calling out to Annie to save her. All the pent-up fury she caged within her was released, as Annie searched out for Hugh’s heart and closed her fingers around it. He groaned, clutching at his chest and the stick clattered to the floor.

“No.” The Dark One slapped her. “Guards take her away.

Hugh struggled to stand up, as Annie fought like a tigress with her captors. The blood pounded in his ears driven there by his wildly pumping heart. Staggering across the floor, he confronted her. Her hands were being held and she was helpless as he struck. The first blow stunned her, opening the flesh above her left eye.

“Bastard,” she shrieked. “I will kill you. I will tear you to pieces.”

The second blow was dealt with such force her head snapped back knocking her unconscious.

She awoke bruised and battered on the floor of her cell. Dried blood caked on her eyelashes and she picked at the crust that formed, marring her vision. Her face felt swollen and bruised, and she felt a large bump on her forehead. She could not have been unconscious for long, as the sun was still low in the sky and shadows wreathed the cell. Using the bars, she hauled herself up, gasping as the pain shot through her body. Her ribs felt sore, and fortunately she had no way of knowing Hugh kicked and punched at her helpless body.

It was quiet within the mill, nothing stirred. Annie reached out with her mind, searching for Dora, for any life sign. It was there, but very weak. She called out to the guards until she was hoarse and sobbing from the effort. Finally, one appeared.

“What do you want?”

He was younger than the others, and while he avoided looking at her, she felt a struggle within him.

“My sister. What news of my sister?”

“I know nothing.”

“For the love of God have pity.” Annie reached through the bars and grabbed the sleeve of his tunic.

“What does one such as you know of God?”

“I am no witch. I am a healer. If I were in league with the Devil, don’t you think he would have saved me by now? Think, you are not as easily fooled as the others.”

“I do not know,” he looked at her. “I have no stomach for these things.”

“What things?”

“What happens in there,” he nodded towards the darkness.

Now, he was willing to listen, she asked.

“Have you sisters of your own?”

“Aye, three sisters and four brothers. That is why I took the job here. They take some feeding.”

“Yes, indeed. I have two sisters and they are all I have in this world. If I should lose them there would be nothing for me.”

They stood in silence for a moment. Annie was sure he heard the beating of her heart, but she could not rush him. From somewhere outside came the sound of children’s laughter, such an ordinary, everyday sound, now seemed from another time. The only real thing within Annie’s prison was the pain.

She realised the guard was listening and she smiled. He blushed and looked down at the floor, kicking the toe of his boot on the flagstones. Annie held her breath.

“Are you in pain?”

“Yes, a little, but the hardest pain of all is not knowing what has become of my sister.”

“They have all left,”

“All, who?”

“Master Tanas and the others.”

“And my sister. What has become of her?”

“She did not leave the room.”

“Then she is still there? Please,” she begged. “Take me to her.”

“I dare not.”

“I swear by all that is holy if you take me to her, I will not try to run. I will remain you prisoner.”

“No, it is impossible.”

“Think if it were your sister. She is only six years old,” Annie sobbed. “I cannot bear this separation.”

He wiped at the sweat that formed on his upper lip and looked around him before asking.”

“You would give me your word not to run?”

“Anything, I swear on the love I have for my sisters.”

“Very well,” he took the keys from his belt and opened the door. “Come quietly now. I am not sure when the others will return.”

Annie stumbled a few times on their walk to that room. She was weak from pain and hunger and her head felt light.

“You go in,” the guard whispered. “I will keep watch.”

“Thank you,” Annie slipped in and searched the room.

The fire burned fiercely, and the room was stifling. The rack, where Dora was tied, was empty. Blood streaked down the wall turning it black. The corners of the room were in shadow.

“Dora,” Annie whispered, “Dora, are you here?”

There was a movement from one of the corners. At first it seemed like a bundle of clothes. Then a moan signalled her sister was lying beneath them and she pulled them aside. Dora lay on her stomach, her back, from shoulders to buttocks was crossed with the marks of the stick. Her flesh was a bloody mass with strips hanging from her bones. The floor beneath her was saturated with blood and she groaned when Annie tried to touch her.

“Dora, dearest,” Annie sobbed, as she ran her hand above the cuts, praying the flesh would mend. She worked fervently for a while, but nothing happened, and she knew this was because Dora’s life force was fading.

“Dearest,” Annie covered the wounds with Dora’s dress and managed to pick her up. She cradled her in her arms and brushed the sweat-soaked hair from her face.

“Annie,” The child looked up with eyes filled with fever. “Hugh hurt me.”

“Yes, dearest, I know he did.”

“Do not cry, Annie. It did not hurt so much after the first few hits.”

“Oh, Jesus help me,” Annie rocked the child. “Forgive me, Dora.”

“It is not your fault. I love you, Annie.”

“I love you too.”

“Will you come and find me in heaven?”

“Yes, I promise.”

The child suddenly turned from her.

“Can you hear Ma calling?”

“No, dearest, I cannot.”

“I can. Ma, I am here,” Dora held out her hand to an unseen presence, and Annie watched, as her small fingers seemed to curl around another hand before falling to the floor.

“Dora, no,” Annie stared down at her sister’s lifeless body. “Do not leave me.”

It was quiet within the room except for the crackling and spitting of the fire and Annie’s anguished sobbing. She carried her sister to a table and laid her down, covering her with her torn dress. Dora’s hair fanned around her, and Annie crossed her small hands across her chest.

“All the pain is over now, dearest,” Annie kissed her lips. Already she felt cold as marble.

“Miss, come away,” the whisper from the doorway startled her.

She walked towards the guard without looking back.

“Oh, Jesus,” he whispered, when he saw the blood on her arms and cast a fearful glance into the room. His eyes widened when he saw the child’s body and he slammed the door shut. Annie walked in a trance back to her cell and stepped inside. The jangling of the keys seemed to go on forever as the guard’s hands shook so badly, he had trouble locking the cell.

“I am so sorry, Miss,” she could hear the tears in his voice.

All was lost. Her family were dead, and God had deserted her. She walked to the wall and laid her head against the cool stones. The cold eased the pain in her head somewhat, but the pain she felt inside would never heal. The guard slunk away, and she allowed herself to sink down onto the straw. Hugh O Brien’s face swam before her, his evil grin taunting her. That fiend was worse than any Devil, but she would make him pay. There had to be some way she could have her revenge. Please God, she prayed, if you are still listening help me to avenge my family. There was no answer, no whispered promise, no voice on the breeze, nothing. Then she did something she had never imagined doing. She prayed for death.

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you in pain?” Her mother asked.

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

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

Instantly a nurse appeared, carrying a steel bowl.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How are you feeling?”

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

“Sore,” she managed to croak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What did you tell Toby?”

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

“And he believed you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Liar,” she smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can you ever forgive me?”

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

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

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

“I know what you mean,” Jill agreed.

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

“How is he?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No doubt he will,” she laughed.

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

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

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

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

She left the house at 3am, the dead hour. The hour it is rumoured Christ died, and the moment in which the veil is lifted to the world of spirits. It is also the time most haunting and apparitions are reported. It’s easy to see why, Jill thought, as she made her way across the frost- covered yard. The windows in the house were dark and there was no light to show those who slept had heard her go. Her father made her promise she’d wake him and mindful that she might not, he stayed downstairs in the sitting room, where tiredness overcame him. He was snoring when she crept down the hallway, and the embers from the dying fire lit the room. It fell upon his face, showing the lines of worry that deepened over the past week.

“Goodbye Dad,” Jill whispered, and bit down on her lip to stop the tears.

She’d not looked in on Toby, not just for fear of waking him, but afraid seeing his flushed, sleep-warm cheeks would weaken her resolve. Bess was forced to stay in her place by the bed, sensing her mistress was in trouble. She tried time and time again to follow Jill, until she locked her in the bedroom with a warning to be quiet.

Drawing the rusted bolt across on one of the outbuildings as quietly as she could, Jill went inside and pulled the bicycle from its hiding place. It was her grandmother’s only means of transport, but she only came across it a few days back and realised it would now play a part in her plan. It was painted black and ancient to look at, but it would serve its purpose. A tatty wicker basket hung from the handlebars, leather straps frayed, but still strong enough to hold Jill’s bundle. The book was wedged in sideways to fit. The triangle of Solomon, incense, spray paint and lighter, were tucked in on either side. Jill wore the cloak over her clothes. She would slip out of them when she reached the graveyard.

The light from the full moon lit the yard as she wheeled the squeaking bike over the stones. Despite oiling it the day before, it still groaned, protesting at being disturbed. To anyone watching from inside the house, she must have looked like a dark shadow reflected against the white of the winter’s night. But there was no one to watch her go, except for the things that belonged to the shadows and they soon returned to their nocturnal foraging. She couldn’t have taken the car. The noise of the engine would echo in the stillness.

The laneway leading to the road was all uphill, so she didn’t try to ride the bike, but pushed it until she was clear of the gate and the road lay smooth in front of her. It was years since she had ridden a bike and her movements were clumsy and jittery at first, but she soon got the hang of it. Peddling along, aware only of the wind in her hair, she had no idea how witchlike she looked. The cloak billowed around her and the speed with which she rode made it look as though she were flying. The gnarled trees and bare bushes on either side of her swept by in a blur. She was panting from the effort and stopped when the village came into view to rest. The feel of the ground beneath her feet felt strange and her legs were wobbly when she stood down from the pedals. Leaning against a low wall for support, she waited until the shaking went from her limbs and her breathing returned to normal.

As she predicted no one watched her pass. The place was deserted, the only movement from the flickering of the bulbs in the overhead streetlights. In the distance, she saw the spire of the church looming ever closer, and from across the fields came the barking of a lone dog. In her hurry and terror, she forgot about the envelope in her pocket, the one destined for her solicitor.

She rounded the side of the church and started the ascent towards the graveyard. The muscles in her thighs screamed in protest as she stood to give more weight to the pedals. Sweat coated her forehead and her breath came in rasps as she urged the bike up the hill. Soon the railing of the graveyard came into view, their spikes ghostly spears guarding the place of the dead. Her hands shook as she placed the bike against the wall beside the gates and pulled the assortment of goods from the basket. She wouldn’t think about what was going to happen, she didn’t dare imagine what the next few minutes held in store, contenting herself with the knowledge her child was safe in his bed and nothing else mattered.

The full moon made the graveyard bright as day and the white marble tombstones luminous under its rays. She knew exactly which way to go as the memory of her first visit there burned the path in her brain. As she moved past the old tombs, she tried not to think of rotten, undead things that might at any time come tottering out. A rat scampered across her path and she drew back. It stopped and looked at her, drawn by the sound of her gasp of disgust. It sniffed the air, whiskers bristling, eyes blazing, until it decided there was nothing to fear and no chance of attack. Jill watched it move away, its body swollen from feasting. “Don’t” her mind screamed, when she imagined its sharp teeth sinking into her cold flesh.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered. “I should have told them I wanted to be cremated.”

Perhaps, her mother would do just that. She would not want the trouble of tending a grave.

The smell of freshly dug earth signalled she’d reached Marie’s grave. She had been so busy worrying about the rat she almost walked by it. The mound looked alien beside the flatter, grass-covered graves beside it and her stomach churned as she imagined the earth breathing.

It’s just my imagination, she warned, as she hid behind a tree and disrobed. Her clothes were stuck to her sweat-coated body and she peeled them away. The blast from the frosty night air made her catch her breath and she pulled the cloak around her shivering body. Gathering up the things she needed, she left her clothes and went back to the grave. The spell of freeing the Wraith was not as complicated as summoning her, and it would only take a few minutes to accomplish. Placing the triangle beside the grave, Jill set about drawing the circle to protect her. She knew, even as she moved the spray around the grass, it would be useless against the Wraith when she attacked. The book warned of this and told her if the spirit she summoned was not a benevolent one, then she might find herself in mortal danger. Still, she had not worried about that in her terror of finding Toby. Even if she realised what might happen, she would have done it anyway.

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

The voice was a snarl against her ear, and she screamed when she realised the Wraith was inside the circle with her.

“Did you really think this,” she scuffed the wet paint with the toe of her shoe. “Would protect you?”

“Not really,” Jill’s voice was hoarse with fear. “I only drew it to complete the spell.”

“Really?” The Wraith stepped out of the circle. “How very noble of you.”

A blast of freezing air swept past her and for the first time Jill smelled the stench. She looked with widening eyes at the Wraith, noticing dark blotches etched on the burgundy gown she wore and the blackness that coating her long, jagged nails. The memory of the men’s screams echoed in her brain and she grew weak with fear. Sensing her distress, the Wraith smiled.

“Now it’s your turn,” it reached out to her. “Now you will pay for disturbing me.”

Jill closed her eyes and waited for the pain.

“Stop that now.”

The familiar voice from behind made Jill turn. Her father stood there, holding the large wooden crucifix that usually hung in the kitchen of the farmhouse. Cobwebs coating its surface, it glittered under the light of the moon. She would have laughed if she was not so terrified. He somehow imagined the Wraith was a vampire that could be driven back by the symbol of the cross.

“Dad, please,” Jill warned him, aware the Wraith was turning her attention to the quivering man.

“Who have we here?” it swept past Jill.

Her father tried to steady himself leaning one hand on the nearest tombstone and holding out the cross with the other.

“Go on now,” he roared as the figure advanced towards him. “Be off with you.”

Before Jill could shout a warning, another voice shattered the night.

“Stand back,” Paul walked towards them arm outstretched.

In it, he held the firearm, the one he was given on his promotion to detective. He never had reason to use it and he had always been grateful. Still, he kept it clean and oiled, aware one day it might be needed.

“Come away,” he grabbed Jill’s father by the shoulder and pulled him out of harm’s way. “Don’t think I won’t use this,” he waved the gun in the Wraith’s face.

“Idiot,” it snarled and with lightning speed, raked its blood-crusted nails across Paul’s hand. He screamed and dropped the gun.

“Marie, stop!” Tom’s voice added to the turmoil around them.

As the Wraith turned towards the sound of his voice, Jill rushed to help Paul.

“I told you to stay away,” she muttered, as she wrapped the handkerchief her father held out to her around the wound.

“I couldn’t let you face this alone,” he looked to where the Wraith stood facing Tom.

“You could have left him out of it,” Jill hissed, as she saw the distress in Tom’s face.

“He might be able to help,” Paul winced as she tied the makeshift bandage in a knot.

From what the Wraith said that was not the case. She no longer apparently recognised her husband and was intent on revenge.

“I will kill you all,” it pointed to each of them in turn. “You should have let me be.”

“I know I should,” Jill stepped away from the others and walked towards it. “But these men had nothing to do with it. It’s my fault and I alone should pay the price.”

“Pity,” it sneered, its nails within an inch of Jill’s face when the shot rang out.

Paul managed to retrieve his gun and fired at the Wraith. The bullet passed clean through it, ricocheting off one of the marble headstones and causing them all to duck.

“I just knew it,” the voice came from along the path. “I said to myself you were all up to something.”

Jill turned, open-mouthed as her mother advanced on them.

“I knew by the way you two,” she glared at her husband and daughter, “had your heads together you were up to something and I’m telling you this…” her voice trailed off as she saw the Wraith.

“Mam, where’s Toby?”

The sound of her daughter’s voice made her answer automatically.

“Asleep in the car,” trying hard to overcome her terror at the thing before her, she asked. “What is that?”

“It’s too difficult to explain, please,” Jill begged. “Go home.”

“I will not go home, not until I know what’s going on.”

“Perhaps I could explain,” the Wraith moved towards her.

“Well, yes.”

Jill saw her mother’s look of disapproval at the state of the Wraith’s dress and thought despite her fear she still found time to be critical even of the dead.

“I was resting, shall we say,” the Wraith sneered, “and this woman woke me. She needed my help to search for her son, and now that I have served my purpose, she expects me to disappear. Well she’s wrong,” it snarled and turned back to Jill.

“This has something to do with your grandmother, I expect,” her mother said.

“Mam, please,” Jill was amazed at her mother’s calm.

“I knew it,” she addressed the Wraith. “What do you want?”

Before the Wraith could answer, Jill said.

“She wants me, Mam. I woke her and now she wants me to pay the price.”

“And what is that?”

“My death,” Jill said.

“Oh,” the information hit home and for a moment her mother was stunned. “Well, she’ll just have to settle for me. I can’t have you leaving my grandson without a mother. Now let’s be reasonable,” she said to the Wraith. “If you are determined to take a life then let it be mine. This young woman is all I have in the world. You should know what it feels like to lose a child,” she realised from the mound of fresh earth and the symbols that surrounded it, that this was the mother of one of the children that was murdered. “Leave my child alone and take me instead.”

“Mam, no,” Jill was sobbing, not only because of her fear for her mother, but because she understood for the first time how much she really loved her.

“Very well,” the Wraith seemed confused by the woman’s words. Somewhere deep in the darkest recesses of her mind, she recalled a loss so great that even in death she felt its pain. “I will do as you ask, I’ll settle for you.”

“No,” Jill screamed, as the Wraith reached for her mother. “Leave her alone.”

She rushed at the Wraith and was joined in her attack by her father and the other men. They encountered nothing but air and the assault only enraged the Wraith, so she forgot her promise and dived at Jill. Her nails cut deep into her skin, until Jill felt her heart would be literally torn from her chest. The Wraith reached out again and again, slashing, tearing, until Jill felt the world fading and the warmth of her own blood coursing down her chilled skin. All around her the screams of her mother and the men rang. They could do nothing but watch in helpless terror.

“Mam, stop that.”

Jill felt the Wraith’s hold loosen and she fell back against the mound. She tried to focus as her mother lifted her head and tried to stop the flow of blood with an assortment of tissues and handkerchiefs.

“That’s Toby’s mother,” Rachael stood with hands on hips, tapping her small foot in irritation. “Why are you hurting her?”

“I don’t know,” the Wraith was confused at the sight of her daughter.

“Come away,” Rachael took her mother’s bloody hand and drew her down onto the path. “Hi, Dad,” she smiled when she saw Tom.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he was sobbing at the image of his little girl.

She looked the same as she had the last time, he saw her alive. Jill lay groaning in agony with her head resting on her mother’s lap. Rachael let go of her mother’s hand, first warning her to stay where she was and walked over to Jill

“I’m sorry my mother hurt you,” she tapped Jill on the hand and the icy cold of her skin burned like fire. “She’s a bit broken in here,” she touched her head. “But they’ll fix her when we get there,” she looked the star-studded sky. “So, don’t worry anymore, I’ll take care of her now, okay?”

“Thank you,” Jill tried to smile through her tears.

She went back the where her mother stood and led her away.

“Bye, Dad,” Rachael looked over her shoulder at Tom.

“Bye, sweetheart,” Tom was so overcome with grief that Paul had to support him.

“Don’t be sad,” Rachael smiled. “We’ll be all right now. Promise.”

They watched her lead her mother over to the mound, watched as the figures before them started to fade.

“Where have you been?” the Wraith asked.

They heard the Wraith ask.

“I went to get ice cream, remember” Rachael said.

“It seems a long time ago,” the Wraith answered.

“I know, Mam, I know,” Rachael’s voice drifted away, and Jill could hear her sigh in resignation, “mothers.”

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

There was no mistaking her mother’s nod of disapproval, as she drew their attention to the visitor in the hallway. Jill knew her mother had always been a bit of a snob and regarded the police as somewhat beneath her. Desperate to get Paul out of the house and away from her cutting gaze, Jill suggested they take a walk. Her eyes were heavy from lack of sleep and the sudden glare of the wintry sun blinded her. Shrugging on her coat, she gestured to Paul to follow her. Neither of them spoke, as they made their way around the side of the house to the orchard. The freezing morning air stung her face and she brushed back her hair, aware how dishevelled she must look. The beauty of the scene was lost on her as overnight the trees were painted white by the frost. Silver hung between the bare branches and reflected the light from the watery sun. The small bench where she always sat was given the same treatment as the overhanging boughs, but she sat anyway, uncaring of the wetness and cold of the wood.

“You look done in,” Paul said.

She tried to look up at him, but the light from the sun dazzled her, and she shaded her eyes.

“Sit down, I can’t see you,” she moved to one side of the bench and made room for him.

“You don’t look too well yourself,” she said, once she could see him properly.

Like her, Paul hadn’t slept very well over the past four days.

“I’ve been tying up some loose ends,” he said. “There was a lot to sort out.”

It was obvious from his blood-shot eyes and the dark stubble on his chin he hadn’t been home.

“Has there been any sign of her?” He asked.

There was no need for Jill to ask who he meant.

“No, nothing, but it’s only a matter of time.”

“Christ,” he ran his hand over his chin. “This just gets worse and worse.”

“Why,” Jill asked. “What’s happening?”

She listened, hardly daring to breathe as he recounted the events of the last few days. His superiors were suspicious at first, when the anonymous tip led him to the cottage, but the horror of what was found there soon had their minds on other things.

“I had to get there first,” he explained. “I was afraid some of Toby’s belongings would still be in the cottage, but I needn’t have worried.”

“Was it bad?” Jill felt her throat grow tight with fear.

“The building itself was no more than a shell. What remained of the contents still smouldered, but that was just on ground level. I couldn’t leave anything to chance,” he looked at her and his eyes were troubled. “I had to see what state the cellar was in.”

“And?” Jill closed her eyes, not wanting to hear and yet needing to.

“The fire reached the lower level; either that or the old oil lamp was knocked over in the struggle. At least, that’s what I told my superiors and they seemed to accept it, but the smell!”

The stench of the men’s roasted flesh seemed to cling to his skin, and he retched as he thought about it.

“I’m all right,” he brushed aside Jill’s hand on his arm and stood up.

Leaning against the trunk of one of the trees, he gulped in mouthfuls of the frosty air, hoping its freshness would help steady his churning stomach.

“That’s what I’ve been doing,” he turned back to face her, now he felt steadier. “Going over the ground with the scene of crime people trying to cover our tracks.”

“What do you mean,” Jill asked. “I thought the fire had done that?”

“I mean the diary,” Paul said. “The one he wrote about. I couldn’t just leave it to be found, could I? There was too much information in it that might start the investigators asking questions, and it wouldn’t have been long until it led them to you.”

“What did you do with it?”

“Nothing yet. It’s in the boot of the car. I read it,” he shook his head in wonder at the horror within its pages. “He was one sick fuck.”

There was no disagreeing with that.

“There’s something else,” he frowned. “I don’t want you to worry, but I have to tell you.”

“What is it?” Jill felt the familiar knot of fear form in her stomach.

“According to the diary, he posted letters. To his sick companions warning them the game was up and to the police, perhaps, taunting them. I won’t know until the letter arrives. It seems he intended to die and wanted the last laugh. The reason I’m telling you all this is it may come back to haunt us, and I want you to be ready.”

“I may not be around if it does,” Jill said. “You might have to face the music alone.”

“We’ll fight that battle when we come to it, for now we can only wait. How is Toby by the way?”

“Remarkably well, considering. Have you heard from Tom?”

“I saw him this morning. He’s holding up, but I don’t envy him the days ahead.” Paul sat back down beside her.

“The funeral’s tomorrow, little Rachael’s I mean. They’ve released her body for burial. I say body, but there was nothing there other than a pile of bones.”

He’d spare her the description of watching as the contents of the three small mounds were uncovered. Of the tiny white bones dusted free of the dirt of the grave, until they lay exposed to the elements, resembling nothing human, nothing real. She was spared the sound of Tom’s anguished sobs as he watched from behind the yellow tape that cordoned off the crime scene, and she didn’t witness the pitiful sight of the three grey mortuary coffins being loaded into the van. No, she didn’t need to hear this, as there was still so much suffering to come, and nothing under heaven could prevent what was about to happen to her.

“I haven’t tried to contact Tom,” she said. “I was afraid seeing him would remind it was real and not part of some terrible nightmare. That makes me a coward, I know,” she shrugged. “But I have to face up to it sometime. I told my father.”

He looked at her in dismay.

“I know,” she tried to smile. “I can hardly believe it myself, but as always, he was a rock of sense and I know what has to be done.”

“With the thing, the…”

“The Wraith,” she finished the sentence for him. “Yes, I’ll set her free; it’s only fair I send her back where she belongs.”

“But you’ll be playing into her hands,” he stood and paced the along the path between the trees.

The frost-coated grass crunched beneath his feet.

“She could come here at any time.” She called to him. “You’ve seen what she’s capable of. This delay is nothing more than a game to her. She’s tormenting me, making me pay for what I’ve done by delaying the inevitable.”

“When will you go?” He knew there was no point in trying to talk her out of it.

“Tonight.”

“The grave may already be open,” he warned. “They sometimes dig them the night before the funeral in preparation, especially when the weather is dry. There’s no sign of rain,” he looked up at the sky. “And there’s not going to be any, not with this cold.”

Jill saw the image of the open grave in her mind, and she could envision the rawness of the dark hole.

“Perhaps, I should leave it until tomorrow night?

“That might be better, Christ,” the sound of his laugh echoed in the still air. “I can’t believe we’re talking like this. I had no idea how happy I was in my ignorance of such things, but I suppose there’s no going back.”

“No,” she agreed. “There’s no going back, and no escape from what has to be.”

“Will you come to the funeral?”

His question startled her.

“I couldn’t bear it.”

“No one would blame you. I’m not looking forward to it myself, but I’m going for Tom. He’ll need a shoulder to cry on in the coming days.”

“So, will Toby and my parents,” Jill said. “I hope you’ll be there for them when the time comes?”

“Count on it,” he put his arm around her shoulder and led her back along the side of the house to the yard. “And I’ll be there for you too, tomorrow night.”

“No,” Jill cried. “Promise me you won’t do that, please?”

Her eyes filled with tears as she looked up at him.

“I need to know you’re safe, that Toby has someone other than my parents to trust, promise me?”

“If that’s what you want,” he said, with a lump in his throat.

“It is,” she wiped away a tear from her cheek. “I’ll rest easier knowing you’re there for him.”

“I promise,” he kissed her forehead and the skin against his lips felt cold as marble.

“Thank you.”

They walked in easy silence back towards his car, unaware of the prying eyes that watched from inside the house.

Paul reached into the open car boot and moved aside a stack of files and paper, searching for the thing he’d hidden there.

“I thought you might want to hide it up there,” he nodded up at the roof of the house.

Jill took the diary and slipped it inside her coat.

“I’ll put it at the bottom of one of the trunks,” she said. “Hopefully no one will find it, at least not until long after you and I are gone.”

“I’ll say goodbye then,” Paul held out his hand, but she ignored it and wrapped her arms around him.

“Goodbye, my friend,” her voice was muffled by his coat.

Once inside the car, he refused to look back. He didn’t notice how she stood aside to allow him to back out, and he flipped the rear-view mirror up so he wouldn’t see her reflection. He managed to steer the car out though the yard gates, despite the tears that flowed blurring his vision. He kept the most frightening thing of all from her, and he wondered now at the wisdom of his actions. Despite the condition of the men’s bodies after the fire, it hadn’t been the cause of their deaths. Even he, who witnessed most things in his job, had never seen such carnage. It looked as though the men were attacked by a wild animal. Clumps of hair and brain matter coated the walls of the cellar as the bodies were torn asunder. He could have told her this, but it wouldn’t stop her doing what she had to do. A force he would never understand drove her on. Only a woman would ever know the true meaning of the words, mother love.

gemmamawdsley

Gemma Mawdsley's Blog.

All posts tagged Haunted Places

Death Cry chapter twenty-seven

Death Cry- chapter twenty-three

Death Cry- chapter twenty-one

Death Cry-chapter twenty

Death Cry-chapter seventeen

Death Cry-chapter fifteen

The Wraith-chapter thirty-seven

The Wraith-chapter thirty six

The Wraith

The Wraith-chapter thirty four

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