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Death Cry-chapter sixteen

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on June 9, 2020
Posted in: banshee, birdsong, hope faith God whispers heaven, books, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, Fairies, Fantasy, fiction, folklore, Ghost, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, harbinger of death, Haunted Houses, horror, Ireland's past, Irish folklore, legend, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, screams, wailing cry, Witchcraft, Witches, wraiths, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

The Dark One was enraged when he saw the carefully laid out body. He stormed to Annie’s cell and threw open the door.

   “You,” he glared down at her. “How did you leave this cell?”

   “Perhaps, it is you who underestimates my power, Lucifer.”

   “Do not dare use that name,” he reached down, grabbed the front of her dress, and hauled her to her feet.

   “Or what,” she reefed her nails along his hand, and her stomach lurched at the dark pus issuing from the cuts. “What will you do, Lucifer, kill me?”

   “I will make you suffer the worst pain imaginable, and when I am finished you will join your family in Hell.”

   “Never,” she laughed in his face. “I will never believe you. No matter what you show me. No matter what you do, I will be true to Him.”

   “Even now,” he shook his head in wonder. “When he deserts you and leaves you to suffer alone.”

   “Until the end of time, if need be.”

   “Very well,” he signalled to the guards to bring Annie.

She followed them without resistance, faltering only outside that door. The table was bare. Dora’s body was gone. Relief flooded through her, for she felt her resolve would have weakened if she once more looked upon the lifeless body of her sister.

   “Tie her down,” Hugh ordered, and she spun round to face him.

   “You,” she spat, and he backed away, ashen faced.

She pointed towards the blazing fire imagining orbs of light rising from it. These she sent spinning towards him. He screamed and ducked down, but some made contact singeing his hair and clothes. Flames ran along the arm of his tunic, the same arm he had used in welding the stick. His roars of pain made the guards come running with water. Annie watched this tableau without feeling. She wanted Hugh to die. To feel the pain her sister had felt, but before she could act any further The Dark One seized her hair and pushed her down onto the table. Her face was pressed against the wood and her sister’s blood coated her face.

   “Bring something to bind her eyes.”

A cloth, smelling of sweat was tied around her eyes, and she was lifted onto the table. No matter how she kicked and struggled, they kept her down. Now her vision was blocked, she was unable to fight, but had to lie there and listen.

   They tied her hands to both corners of the table; her feet were pulled wide and tied in the same way. She lay there spread-eagled awaiting her faith. There were whispers from close by, and she turned her head towards the sound. Sweat coated her forehead not only from fear, but also from the arid heat. A smell of sulphur wafted across her face, and she knew The Dark One was standing over her.

   “We must look for the witch mark.”

There were sniggers from the guards and Annie strained against her bonds.

   “It will go much easier if you stop struggling.”

She turned her head from his putrid breath and kicked out as hard as she could. The slap she received split her lip, and she tasted salty, coppery blood.

   “Very well, proceed.”

There was a sound of metal scraping against metal. Annie clenched her fists and tried to control the tremors shaking her body. Something cold touched her cheek and she gasped.

   “Stay very still, cousin. I would not want to cut that pretty skin any more than I have to.”

Annie cried out as the knife cut the clothes from her body. She felt the bodice of her dress rip open and heard the gasps of the men as her breasts were exposed.

   “Oh, God no,” she sobbed.

 She had never been seen naked by anyone, not even her mother, since she was young. Now here she was lying almost naked on a table, surrounded by strange men. Her tears soaked the blindfold, as she felt hands move over her in mock examination. Her hands were untied, and she was pulled into a sitting position as her neck and back was checked.

   “Nothing,” Hugh’s voice was hoarse, as his hands continued to move over her body.

Annie knew her skin was flawless. There was not a freckle or mole to be seen. Hugh’s hands still roamed over her, kneading, and pinching her breasts, until she cried out in pain.

   “Remove her petticoat,” The Dark One ordered.

   “No, please,” she tried to pull her legs together, as she felt the tip of the blade against her skin.

The guards drew closer. She smelt their sweat and heard their laboured breathing. They seemed impervious to her cries for mercy. Hands moved down her stomach, between her thighs. She screamed and thrashed, trying to get away as the fingers probed deeper.

   “Enough,” The Dark One ordered, but still the hands remained. “I said enough.”

The fingers were pulled away, leaving scratches on her flesh.

   “Move, go on,” she heard him order the men.

   “Have you had enough?”

Annie was unable to answer. She was sobbing so much that words were beyond her.

   “Answer me, Annie. Have you had enough?”

   “Yes,” she managed to splutter.

   Are you ready to concede?”

He waited for her crying to subside. After all, he had won. Someone of Annie’s sensibilities could not endure any more of this. Annie’s sobs quietened. She allowed her body to relax and her breathing to deepen. She heard the hissing of the fire and the muted mumbling of the men. Were these some of the last sounds Dora heard?

   “Now,” he asked. “Are you ready?”

   “No.”

   “Think clearly.”

Annie turned her head towards him. “Never,” she roared.

   “Very well. Shave her. We will find the mark.”

The blade slapped against leather, as Hugh sharpened it. Annie gritted her teeth, as she felt its sting beneath each arm. He moved uncaring of her tender flesh, and she tried not to cry out when the blade nicked and cut. She did not even move when she felt it between her legs and heard the dry scraping as it tore hair from the roots. There were small tracks of blood running under her arms. She felt the trickles as they moved. There was also stickiness between her legs, and she knew it wasn’t sweat.

   “Still, nothing,” Hugh whispered in astonishment.

   “Her hair then.”

   “What?”

   “Shave her head,” he ordered.  “Start with these,” he handed him a shears.

Hugh shrugged and began to hack at Annie’s hair. The auburn locks cascading around the table fell to the floor as he worked. Still she didn’t move, even when the shears snipped so close to her head, she heard the snapping of its jaws.

   “Look, there,” Hugh was pointing to a small mark behind her ear. A tiny brown birthmark even Annie did not know about.

   “Well done, Hugh. You have pleased me and I will see you are rewarded.”

   “Thank you, Oliver,” he simpered, handing him the shears.

   “You may leave,” The Dark One ordered the men. “You also,” he told Hugh. “Your work is done.”

Annie listened, as the men filed from the room. The flesh beneath her arms and between her legs burned and her scalp tingled, unused to the feel of the air. She felt the restraints being loosened.

   “You may rise.”

She sat and removed the blindfold, blinking in the dim light. Black spots danced before her eyes, as she felt around her for her torn clothing.

   “Such modesty,” The Dark One laughed, as she tried to pull the tatters of her dress from beneath her.

She gathered the cloth around her breasts and huddled into an upright foetal position.

   “Get up,” he pulled her from the table, tearing the scraps of clothing from her grasp.

   “No,” she screamed, and tried to wrestle them from him, but he pushed her aside and dumped the fabric into the fire.

There was nothing else within the room she could use to hide her shame.

He ignored her and walked towards a wall. With a wave, a mirror appeared, and he beckoned her forward.

   “No,” Annie whispered, trying to cover herself with her hands.

 He grabbed her, pushing her towards it.

   “Look what your God has allowed to happen.”

She averted her gaze.

   “Look, I said,” sharp talons seized her chin and twisted her face around. “Tell me again how much you love him.”

Annie gasped at her shorn head. All that remained of her beautiful hair was a few small tufts of bristles. He let go of her chin and caught her arms pulling them behind her back.

   “Look well,” he whispered. “See what you have become.”

Annie’s cheeks blazed in shame as she looked upon her body. Dark bruises stained the flesh on her breasts and blood glowed against the whiteness of her thighs.

   “Well, what do you say now?” He clicked his fingers and the mirror vanished. “I would never allow this to happen to you. I would protect you.”

   “No.”

   “Then you will die.”

   “Yes,” Annie whispered. “I will die.”

With a roar he flung her from him. He would have torn her to pieces, had it not been for the door opening. Hugh had returned.

   “I told you to stay away.”

   “I thought I could be of help, Oliver, and mother asked if you would be home for dinner.”

Annie started to laugh, home for dinner. In the awfulness of her situation Hugh’s words seemed ludicrous.

   “Will you go home for dinner?” she asked. “I mean,” she wiped the tears from her eyes. “Hell is such a long way to go.”

   “She is insane,” Hugh muttered.

At this Annie laughed even louder. Maybe she was insane. Maybe what she felt, what she had witnessed were all the wanderings of madness.

   “She confessed,” The Dark One tried to be heard above her laughter. “And refuses to repent. She will die at first light.”

Hugh nodded and looked at Annie. She made no attempt so far to harm him, and he held up his arm for protection when she pointed at him.

   “Will you give me you cloak?”

He was amazed at this request. This was his finest cloak, hardly worn. He did not want her blood on it. He was saved from answering.

   “Sit her down,” The Dark One ordered.

Hugh motioned her to sit, but she refused to move. One arm was held tight across her chest, the other between her legs.

   “Will you sit,” he glared at her, pointing towards a chair. The body he had violated no longer aroused his lust, and he didn’t want to have to touch her.

   “Will you give me your cloak?” She asked again.

   “Enough of this,” The Dark One roared. “I said sit.”

Annie found herself flying. She threw her arms wide in the hope of finding something to stop her flight. There was nothing and in the seconds, it took for her to reach her destination, she managed to look behind her. The sharp points of the nails glistened in the light throw by the fire, as Annie hurtled towards the chair.

The impact of her back against wood made it impossible for her to save herself, and she slammed with great force down onto the nails. Her howls of agony echoed within the mill. The guards outside the door crossed themselves, as the screams continued unabated. The eight-inch nails drove upwards, tearing through flesh and muscle. Spearing her rectum, puncturing her colon and bladder, and splitting the hymen. Despite the force in which she fell upon them, the points seemed to sink slowly into her body. The more she struggled, the deeper they sank. She gripped the arms of the chair and tried to lift herself off. The air was filled with the smell of blood and faeces. She managed to rise one side of her body off the spikes, but the other side dug deeper. Her screams resounded off the walls. Blood and body fluids ran across the seat of the chair and down the legs. Hugh stood frozen watching her struggle. She called out to him begging him for help, but he never moved.

   “God, help me,” she cried to the heavens. “Let me die.”

The Dark One pulled her from the chair. With a sucking noise her body came free of the nails, and he threw her on to the floor. From her buttocks to the backs of her knees were covered with puncture wounds. Blood ran from each perforation and snaked around her body. She was shaking from shock as she cried again.

   “Let me die. Oh, dear God, let me die.”

   “Not yet,” The Dark One laughed. “What you have suffered is nothing compared to the death I will give you come morning.”

Annie felt a rush of cool air as the door was opened. Strong arms lifted her, and the guards carried her back to her cell. Her nakedness no longer shamed her, for the pain was overpowering. She was sobbing when they threw her down in the straw. Let me die, she prayed. Let me bleed to death. The blood coursing down her body felt warm. She reached out a trembling hand and tried to cover herself with the straw. The pain raging within her, made her catch her breath, and she surrendered to the darkness that threatened, and sank into its folds.

It was night when she awoke. For the first time torches were lit along the corridor. A blanket covered her nakedness and she clutched at the soft wool in wonder. The cell door creaked open, but she did not try to turn. The pain was too great.

   “Here, Miss. Try to drink.”

She looked up to see the young prison guard. He was holding a ladle of water to her mouth.

   “I cannot.”

He cupped a hand at the side of her face and allowed the water to drip over her lips and pool into his palm.

   “I am so sorry, Miss,” he whispered.

   “It is not your fault.”

   “Aye, that as may be, but I have done nothing to help,” he sat beside her and pulled the blanket over her shoulders. She groaned as it stuck to the blood on her back.

   “Sorry,” he gulped.

   “No, you are truly kind. Did you light the torches?”

   “Yes, I am on duty for the night.”

There was silence for a moment. Annie seemed to drift in and out of consciousness. The next sound she heard was his crying. She reached out a hand and patted his leg.

   “Hush now; my suffering will soon be over.”

   “But it is not fair. You are only a girl and look what they have done to your beautiful hair.”

Annie forgot about her hair. She reached up and felt the coarse stubble. Her tears stung, as her face was sore from crying.

The next thing she felt was a soft hand brushing her head. She looked up to find her mother smiling down at her, her mother as she had been in life, and not the ghoulish figure of her nightmares.

   “Annie, darling,” she kissed her face. “Do not be afraid. This will pass and we will be together again.”

   “Mamma, where is Dora?”

   “She is safe and at peace, child. You need have no worries.”

   “I am going to die.”

   “Yes, child, I know.”

   “I am afraid. Oh, Mamma, I am so afraid.”

   “I would take all this from you if I could,” her mother’s eyes filled with tears. “But I have not the power.”

   “Rose and Meg and the others are they dead?”

   “No, they will live and prosper.”

   “Thank God.”

   “I must go now, child. I was allowed only moments upon the earth, and I must leave. Already the cock crows and soon it will be light.”

   “Mamma do not leave me please,” Annie held tightly to her mother’s hand.

When she woke again sunlight blazed through the slatted windows. Footsteps thundered on the floor above, and she knew they were coming for her.

Death Cry-chapter fourteen

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on June 5, 2020
Posted in: banshee, birdsong, hope faith God whispers heaven, books, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, Fairies, Fantasy, fiction, folklore, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, harbinger of death, Haunted Houses, horror, Ireland's past, Irish folklore, legend, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, wailing cry, Witchcraft, Witches, wraiths, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

A gale blew up during the night and sent leaves and dust swirling around Annie’s cell. She sat against the wall and listened to the voices carried on the wind. Her senses heightened; she heard the death cries of animals trapped within the forest. The beating of bats wings sounded like thunder. But the sound she reached out for most was beyond her. She could not find Dora. The darkness within the mill was absolute, broken only by the moon, as it sailed between wind-tossed clouds. There was scurrying in the straw, and she flicked her hand towards the movement. Coarse hair brushed against her skin, and she drew back in terror. Moonlight moved across the floor and she saw it was a rat. It was huge, almost the size of a full-grown cat, with black bristles standing upright on its back, teeth drawn back in a manic leer. It hissed and made ready for attack. It knew she was trapped.

   She never took her eyes off its face as she stood up. If it should catch her throat, she knew she would never be able to remove it. She edged towards the corner of the cell, one hand in front of her face. It jumped, and she felt razor-shape teeth tear a chunk from her wrist. Screaming, she shook it off, and it thudded against the wall. It lay still and she inspected the bite. Blood gushed from the hole, and she tried to spit into the wound in the hope of clearing away any poisons left there, but it was useless. Her throat was too dry from terror. So, instead she held her hand down and allowed the blood to flow ever faster around the torn tissue. It ran between her fingers to drip into a small pool on the straw. So intent was she on tending to the wound, she had forgotten about the rat. It was now ready to resume the attack. Its tongue darted across its lips, tasting her blood. The moon moved behind a cloud and the cell was thrust into darkness. Annie felt sick from fear as she tried to trace the rats’ movement. But it was well used to hunting and moved noiselessly among the straw. The only sign of its presence was the light thrown by the redness of its eyes. At times it blinked and was lost from sight. Annie froze, waiting for it to pounce. The wound in her wrist burned, and waves of pain shot down her fingers.

   Dora, her sister flashed into her mind. If something as large as this should attack so small a child! The rat inched towards her and snatched at her ankle. Once again, she felt the teeth tear flesh from her bones, and she screamed and kicked out at the dark shape. Her fear was being replaced by anger. She would not allow the creature to hurt her again. Moonlight flooded the cell and she saw to her horror; the rat was gnawing on a piece of her flesh.

   “Devil,” she spat, at the hunched shape. “Fiend from hell.”

The rat, intent on its feasting, looked up at her and drew back its lips. For a moment it looked as though it was laughing at her.

   “Die,” Annie whispered, imagining she was inside its body, tearing and ripping at its tissues.

The rat hissed and drew back. Annie’s hands moved faster, clawing at the air. The rat spun and withered on the floor. Blood dripped from between its clenched teeth and ran from its nose. It squealed just once as Annie envisioned her fingers wrapping around its heart and squeezing. She held on tight until all movement ceased, and the body stiffened in death. This threat was over for now.

She spent the rest of the night huddled in a corner of the cell and as far away from the body as possible. This was the first time she had knowingly destroyed life, and the thought of what she did sickened her.

   The night air chilled her to the marrow, and her breath rose in white clouds. Winter’s sting was upon the land, and there was nothing to stop it invading the cell. But this cold seemed like no other. She pulled some of the straw around her legs and over her lap, hoping to find some warmth, but there was none. From somewhere along the inky-black corridor she heard low, menacing laughter. Threatening shadows, making no sound, darted along the walls. Nameless things reached out sharp talons snarling hideously and she screamed, covering her face. All through the night this torture continued. The bitter-cold air hung with the stench of death, as vile creatures whispered in her ear, to heed The Master, to do his bidding and all would be well.

   “No,” Annie moaned, at each whispered promise. “I cannot.”

As the voice faded away with an agonising cry, another replaced it. All of those within his power sought to please him and appease their own suffering. Annie prayed, begging God to help her. She plugged her ears with her fingers, but the voices still penetrated. Her stomach lurched from the smell, and she crawled onto her hands and knees, muscles contracting painfully as she retched into the straw.

   “Have you suffered enough?”

Annie wiped the bile from her mouth with her long hair and looked towards the voice. The Dark One stood at the gate of the cell, but she was unable to see him for he blended so well with the night.

   “Leave me in peace,” she croaked, her throat burning.

   “I will give you peace, Annie. Just say the word.”

   “No, never.”

   “Very well,” she heard him move away. “But by morning you will bend to my will, if you remain sane enough to do so.”

The blood pounded in her ears, as she waited for what was to come next. Screams reverberated from within the mill. She ran to the bars of her prison and tried to locate the sound. There was movement along the corridor, a slow shuffling of feet dragging on the stone floor.  She sniffed the air and her flesh crawled. It smelled of the tomb, of rotting, decomposing corpses. Icy fingers scored down her neck, as the lumbering figures came into view. The rotten remains of her mother and father walked towards her. She was unable to move; her hands had grown numb from gripping the bars, and she was frozen in place.

   “Ma, Da, no,” she sobbed, as they advanced.

The shrouds she had so carefully sewn for them, draped from skeleton shoulders. What remained of their flesh was blackened and hung in strips from yellowing bones. Most of her mother’s hair was stripped from her scalp. The few remaining hairs hung in snakelike tendrils around her wizened face. Their shrivelled lips showed white teeth against the blackness of gums, and the sounds they made were of a tortured wailing. Clawed, leprous hands reached out to her, and she screamed in agony. Still she could not move. Not even when her mother pressed her face towards Annie’s, and she was forced to look into the black, worm infested cavernous sockets that once housed her eyes.

   “Ma, no” Annie sobbed as the fear overwhelmed her. She never felt her muscles relax or the warmth of the urine running from between her legs. Mercifully, a curtain of darkness covered her vision and her mind, as she sank to the floor.

Watery sunlight flooded the cell, as Annie struggled into consciousness. Her sleep was undisturbed and despite the horrors of the night, her mind remained untouched. All that happened seemed just a bad dream. The body of the rat lay on its back, frozen claws reaching upwards. She shied back for a moment, and then anger replaced her fear, as the pain of her wounds stung.

   “Get out,” she nudged the corpse with the toe of her shoe.

It rolled over on its side, and she shuddered at the dried blood on its face.

   “Go on, get out,” she kicked it closer to the bars.

Footsteps thundered on the floor above, and she retreated to the back of the cell. The Dark One passed by without a backward glance.

   “Bring her along.”

The cell door was thrown open and Annie recognised the man. He had been part of the group who had taken Stefan.

   “I want no trouble from you,” he warned. “Come out.”

She smiled, as she walked towards him. He drew back uncertain, but mesmerised. He never saw the huge rat, and she moved so quickly, he was unable to stop her. She kicked at the body and he was hit full force in the face with it. The rats’ claws snagged on his tunic, and he screamed backing away, until he landed in a heap against the wall. He stared down at the blood-soaked body; its face drawn back in a grimace of death. His screams brought the others running, as he struggled to tear the rat away. The body thudded against the bars of the cell and he pointed a quivering towards it.

   “She made that thing attack me,” he told the men. “It flew at me.”

They mumbled in astonishment not only at such evil, but also at the sheer size of the rat. Annie was dragged from the cell and propelled towards that accursed room. The Dark One was waiting.

   “The night was a long one for you?”

She shrugged and sat in the chair he pointed at.

   “Then you still refuse to obey me, after all you have seen?”

   “My answer remains the same. I am a servant of God.”

   “You will leave your parents in Hell rather then protect them?”

   “My parents are not in Hell,” she shook from fear. “They were good while they lived. You  have no power over them.”

   “Oh, but I have, Annie. Every creature that walks on this earth has their failing. It is bred in flesh and bone. They are mine now, and they will suffer eternal torture until the end of time. Have you so little love for them you allow this to happen?”

   “You lie. I know you lie.”

   “Then, what did you see last night?” he hissed. “Does your God tell you that you dreamed it all? It could not have happened, and your parents are with him?”

She refused to answer.

   “Very well,” he reached into his pocket, withdrew a scrap of material, and dropped it onto her lap.

She screamed and brushed it away. It was the same material she used for the shrouds.

   “Tricks,” she screamed. “Vile tricks used to frighten the ignorant.”

   “Tricks,” he snarled. “You accuse me of trickery. I who command legions?”

He clapped his hands and the door was thrown open. Dora was led into the room, but she was no longer in chains. The dress she wore was new, and she appeared well cared for.

   “Annie,” she ran to her sister and climbed on her lap. “Look at my new dress.”

   “It is very pretty,” Annie tried to smile. “Who gave it to you?”

   “Jane made it for me, and she is going to make one for you too.”

   “Where did you stay last night?”

   “I stayed with Jane,” she reached up and stroked Annie’s face. “Are you coming home soon?”

   “I do not know, my sweet,” Annie’s eyes filled with tears and Dora’s face grew serious.

   “I thought everything was going to be all right, but it is not. Is it Annie?”

Annie could only shake her head.

   “It is all right, Annie. I know.”

   “What do you know, Dora?”

   “That bad things have to happen.”

   “Who told you this?”

   “No one,” Dora whispered, clutching her stomach “I feel it, inside. You know?”

   “Yes, dearest,” Annie felt tears trickle down her cheeks. “Yes, I know.”

The sisters clung together for a moment, Annie breathing in the smell of Dora’s hair.

   “Well, this is all very touching,” The Dark One pulled Dora from Annie. “But it is time for your sister to be questioned by the elders.”

Strong arms lifted Annie from her chair and marched her towards the door.

   “No,” she screamed. “She is just a child. Let her be.”

She twisted around trying to see her sister.

   “Dora,” she called to her. “Tell them whatever they want to hear.”

   “I am not afraid, Annie,” Dora’s voice reached her before the door slammed. “And you must not be either.”

Annie was dragged back to her cell. She screamed, she bit and kicked at her jailors, but it was of little use. They dumped her unceremoniously into the straw, and she lay there sobbing.

   The hours dripped by, as she listened to every sound within the mill. Doors groaned open, timbers creaked, as they stretched and settled. Voices echoed along the corridor, and she strained to hear what they were saying. The only person she saw throughout the day was the jailor, who brought her food. This consisted of a stew of lentils and potato that made her stomach turn. She pushed it aside, and drank the tankard of water accompanying the meal. Despite her pleading with him for news of her sister he remained silent, and she was left to suffer.

Later that night she had a visitor, Mary O Brien. Annie stumbled to her feet when the woman appeared and rushed towards the bars.

   “You have news of my family?”

Mary looked around her before answering.

   “They are all dead. All except Dora and she has been accused of being in league with you.”

   “No, this cannot be true. You are lying, you must be.”

   “Well, if that is all the thanks, I get for putting myself out, I am sorry I bothered,” Mary sniffed and made a great show of pretending to leave.

   “No wait,” Annie begged. “I do not mean to be so rude. Please tell me what you have heard.”

   “Very well. But I warm you any more rudeness and I will leave.”

   “Yes, of course, but you must understand how upset I am at the news.”

   “Well, you only have yourself to blame. Goodness knows I have tried to help, and dearest Oliver has been doing what he can to assist you.”

   “Yes, please,” Annie ignored the woman’s nonsense. “Tell me of my family.”

   “Well, it seems they were trying to escape through the woods when the elders hunted them down. Dora was the only one who survived, and she is here with Jane Lynch awaiting sentence.”

   “Sentence, but she is just a child!”

   “Nevertheless, she has been found guilty and her punishment begins in the morning. Annie dear,” Mary’s tone softened. “Will you not repent and be done with this for all our sakes.”

   “Yes,” Annie needed time to think. “Send him to me and I will repent.”

   “Good girl. It makes sense to do so, but Annie. You will keep to your side of the bargain. Give me the lease to the cottage and land.”

   “Yes, of course I will, as soon as I am free.”

   “Oh, very well.”

The Dark One appeared within minutes of the woman leaving.

   “I am told you want to repent?”

   “Tell me the truth, are my family dead?”

   “All, but the child, Dora and she is not long for this world.”

   “I do not believe you. I would have felt their passing.”

   “Even now you doubt my power,” he raised an eyebrow. “After all you have seen.”

   “What will become of Dora?”

   “She will be beaten like all witches’ children until she confesses you are a witch.”

Tears stung Annie’s eyes as she thought of her sister’s frail body.

   “She will not survive the beating. She is too weak.”

   “That is up to you. You know what you must do to save her. Sleep well,” he laughed before disappearing.

Death Cry- chapter eight

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on May 29, 2020
Posted in: banshee, books, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, Fairies, fiction, folklore, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, harbinger of death, Haunted Houses, horror, Ireland's past, Irish folklore, legend, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, sleeplessness, thoughts, twlight, wailing cry, Witchcraft, Witches, wraiths, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Annie glared at her and looked across at Hugh.

   “I don’t think so.”

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

   “Silence.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “Enough”.

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

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

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

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

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

Roma was crying quietly.

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

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

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

   “I have found the mark.”

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

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

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

   “Get in line.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “Such theatricals, don’t you think?”

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

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

   “What is this place?”

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

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

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

   “I don’t understand.”

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

   “What do you mean?”

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

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

   “Open your eyes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Death Cry-chapter seven

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on May 28, 2020
Posted in: banshee, birdsong, hope faith God whispers heaven, books, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Death Cry, Eerie Places, Fairies, Fantasy, fiction, folklore, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, harbinger of death, Haunted Houses, horror, Ireland's past, Irish folklore, legend, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, screams, thoughts, twlight, wailing cry, Witchcraft, Witches, wraiths, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

The woods seemed darker than usual when Annie set off that night. Though she knew all the trails by heart, she picked her way carefully. The wind died down and she tried not to listen to the night sounds. Meg placed a small wooden cross around her neck, and it felt good against her skin. She mouthed a prayer for protection, but the paralysing fear she once felt, was no longer upon her. She now had four children to think of and Meg.

   The village was well lit that night. She saw the flickering of torches long before she reached the outskirts, and she made her way hidden by the shadow of the forest, to the back door of Jane’s house. She tapped a few times on the wood before a light appeared in the window and she heard Jane whisper.

   “Who is it?”

   “It’s me, Annie.”

   “Annie,” Jane stood framed in the doorway, a candle in her hand. “What brings you here and at such an hour?”

   “I need to speak with you. Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

   “Come in,” she stood back and allowed her to enter.

The kitchen, the room in which Annie spent much of her time while nursing Jane and her children, seemed grander, more elaborate, even in the dim candlelight. There were stuffed cushions on the wooden benches, and she noticed the food shelves were well stocked.

   “Has the work situation improved?”

   “No, why? Well, maybe a little.”

   “Things seem to have looked up since I was last here, and I wish you well.”

They were still standing by the door, and Jane with great reluctance, asked Annie to sit down.

   “Jane, what is it. What’s wrong?”

   “It’s nothing. Oh, I am sorry, Annie. It’s seeing you after all this time and so late at night,” the smile she gave Annie never reached her eyes.

   “I won’t keep you long. I need to know if you heard anything about the gypsies that were camped down in the hollow.”

   “Oh, yes, indeed,” the subject sparked something in the woman. “They took them last night, you know?”

   “No, I don’t know. Who took them and for what reason?”

   “Why, the elders. They went to the camp last night and brought them here.”

   “Here, where?”

   “To the old mill. They’re being held for trial.”

   “On what charges?”

   “Witchcraft, it was they caused the sickness.”

   “But, Jane, you know the sickness was here before they came.”

   “Yes, my dear, I know it was, but good Mr. Tanas, says that’s how they work. They send the sickness ahead of them, and then come to gloat at their work.”

Annie got up and paced the room. Roma and Stefan, two of the gentlest people she had ever met were being tried for witchcraft.

   “Who is Mr. Tanas?”

   “He’s a truly kind gentleman who’s been staying with the O Brien’s. He too has suffered, poor dear, because of these people, and it’s become his mission to track them down and stop them from hurting others.”

   “When is the trial to be?”

   “Tomorrow.”

   “Who will speak for them?”

   “I’ve no idea. They’re unlikely to have any money.”

Annie found it hard to accept the change that had come over Jane. In the old days she would have been crying when talking of such things, now…

   “If they had money,” Annie spat. “They would not be on trial.”

   “Well, Mr. Tanas says…

   “To hell with this Mr. Tanas, I’m sick of the man and I’ve yet to meet him.”

   “Oh, Annie, you mustn’t take on so. You’ll change your mind when you meet him and realise, as I and many others have done, what a good man he is.”

   “Be quiet, Jane,” Annie’s mind was racing.

   “Please, do not upset yourself, Annie. After all, they did cause the sickness. Even you lost your parents because of them.”

   “Jane, once and for all, will you listen to me?  The heat caused the sickness. Ignorance and careless handling of food caused the sickness.”

   “Are you saying I in some way caused my child’s death? How could you, Annie,” Jane was near to tears.

   No, that is not what I am saying. No more than I brought about the death of my parents.”

   “I’ve heard enough. I want you to leave,” Jane took the candle from its holder and walked towards the door.

   “I didn’t come here to upset you, Jane, but don’t you see what’s happening? The villagers strive for a simple answer for the sickness and all this talk of a curse is the stuff of fairy-tales. There is no curse. There are no witches. They have picked on the gypsies because they are poor. Who will they come for next, you or me?”

She knew by Jane’s face what she asked was not far from the truth. Meg was right; she was in danger.

   “I’ll bid you goodnight,” Jane held the door wide.

   “I’ll be back in the morning. Someone has to speak for those unfortunates.”

   “Then I should come quite early, if I were you.”

   “To be sure of a good seat?”

   “If you are going to speak for them.”

   “Why, what time does the trial start?”

   “At sunup.”

There was something missing, something her friend was not telling her. Annie stood waiting.

   “Well?”

Jane squirmed, fussing with the cuffs of her dress, and pulling at the neckline.

   “It’s just that…”

   “It’s just that, what?”

   “They’ve already built the gallows,” Jane’s head was bent; the words muffled.

   “How can this be? They haven’t even been tried yet.”

Jane shrugged.

   “Well, we’ll see about that. Not everyone in this place can have taken leave of their senses.”

   “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call here on your way to the trial. Rumours spread so quickly at times such as these.”

   “I understand. I would not want to put you in any danger. You were always such a good friend to my mother.”

Jane flinched at the mention of her mother.

   “Good night, Annie.”

   “Goodbye, Jane.”

No matter what Meg said, no matter how much she pleaded, Annie refused to stay away from the village. Meg was shocked at the news of Stefan and Roma’s impending trial, but she was more afraid for Annie.

   “But, Meg, don’t you see? I must go. They have no one, and there’s no one to speak on their behalf.”

   “It’s too dangerous,” Meg shook her head. “The people are out of their minds with worry. They’ll turn on you, mark my words.”

   Then what am I to do?” Annie whispered; fearful she might wake the sleeping children. “Stand back and let them hang for a crime they haven’t committed?”

   “You have to think of the young ones. You are all they have. Look at me, child.”

Annie did not want to look.

   “Annie, look at me,” Meg’s voice was softer. “I’m old, I cannot always be around for the young ones, and you can.”

   “Oh, Meg, don’t you know that I’m thinking about them. I’m doing this for them,” she knelt beside the old woman, and buried her face in her lap. “Don’t you think I’m frightened too? I dread going to court tomorrow, but I’ve no choice.”

   “There’s always a choice, child,” Meg stroked her hair. “And there’s always a price must be paid for those who are true to his teachings. This time, God help me,” her words became a sob. “He’s asking too much of you.”

   “Oh, Meg, don’t cry. Maybe he’ll find a way to help me.”

   “He couldn’t help his own son.”

   “But it had to be,” Annie whispered. “He had to be sacrificed to save us.”

   “And who will save you, child. What if it is time for another sacrifice?”

   “I don’t know, Meg. I only know I have to try and help them.”

   “Oh, child, child,” Meg held her. “I feel as though my heart is being torn from me.”

   “I’ll come back. I promise I will. You’ll see me walking through the ferns tomorrow afternoon and with Stefan and Roma following.”

   “And if I don’t?”

   “Then take the children and start walking towards the town. Find Pat and bring him back here as quickly as you can.”

   “I’ll do that. I will keep the young ones safe. I’ll promise you.”

Neither of them slept that night, though no strange noises came from the forest to trouble them. They spoke little, each lost in their own thoughts. Meg cried quietly in between praying, and Annie studied her books. Every so often she got up and went to check on the sleeping children. They lay as always huddled together with Blackie at their feet. Meg told her she had to give them a little something to help them sleep. Paul and Lily’s upset was passed to her sisters, and they needed to get some rest.

   They were asleep when Annie left for the village. She kissed each warm face and stroked the cat, which eyed her wearily before purring and nuzzling her hand. The first rays of light were streaking through the trees when she set off. Meg kissed her, wishing her a speedy return before breaking down and sobbing.

   “Oh, Annie, child, don’t go.”

   “I have to, Meg,” Annie pulled her fingers from the old woman’s grasp. “Pray for me.”

Annie started to run. She wanted to be far away from the cottage when she too, broke down. When Meg was well out of sight and the cottage lost among the trees, she stopped. Leaning against a trunk, she sobbed until she felt sick. She was frightened, terrified, but she had to go on. Something within her said she must do this. Wiping her eyes and pulling her shawl tightly around her in the hope of finding courage within its folds, she set off. She stopped once more beside a small stream and washed the tears from her face. Then hurried onwards, sure the villagers were already awake and thronging the streets. It was not every day they tried someone for witchcraft.

   There were many who stayed awake that night. Although Oliver Tanas was too busy to help in the erection of the gallows during the day, he was highly active at night. Being a man of great learning, he had many books on witchcraft, and these he read with great gusto to the assembled villagers. There were chapters on how to tell a witch, what marks to look for. He had even drawn the wheel they had to make to help in the interrogation of the said, witches. His most fervent servants were the O Brien’s. They worked by him nightly teaching the others, etching the fear of witches deep into their brains. Mary and Hugh now felt they were a great authority on the subject and lost no time in telling others about the fearful things being done by these witches. Their words came directly from Rome and became their mantra. “Thou shall not suffer a witch to live.”

   Witches were easy to spot. They could be young or old, but they all had the devils mark. This, so-called mark, was the teat with which they fed their familiar. This could be a dog, a cat or the witch hunters were known to have settled for a spider. The familiar was an imp in animal form and acted as a go between, ran errands and took messages between the witch and the Devil. They also helped in the invocation of demons. Once pricked with a needle the mark refused to bleed.  The absence of blood was a sure sign of a witch.

Oliver had a special tool for such a purpose. He had shown it to Mary and Hugh many times, holding it up in front of a lamp, so they might see the gleam of the steel, the point of the blade. They had no idea this awful looking blade was made to retract into the handle, and when it seemed to the onlookers the needle had descended deep into the victim’s flesh, in fact, it barely touch them. Witches were mostly women with great power over men. They were said to collect male organs and Oliver lost no time in telling the frightened men how he found a nest of almost forty of these at the home of one witch. The more beautiful the witch the more dangerous she became. Now, on the day of the trial the people were not only frightened out of their wits, but their blood was up. They would weed the witches out, they told one another, find every one of them and make them pay.

   Oliver was gathering strength for the days ahead. He despised the light, but he could not miss this opportunity. If he left it to the oafs around him, they would surely make a mess of things. This had to be handled gently, with a silken touch. The girl was already here. He felt her coming through the forest. Such bravery was rare in one so young; he would enjoy toying with her. There were so many in the past who settled for so little. Eternal life was always a good seller, eternal damnation was their reward. He had a cave at the mouth of Hell for all those who had fallen to him; a black cave echoing with their cries and pleas for mercy. They had shown none of this to any of their own kind, and he felt no inclination to do the same. So, few realised, until too late, what a precious thing the soul was. This one would not surrender so easily. She might even amuse him for a while, but in the end, she would submit.

Death Cry-chapter five

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on May 26, 2020
Posted in: banshee, books, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Death Cry, Eerie Places, Fairies, Fantasy, fiction, folklore, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, harbinger of death, Haunted Houses, horror, Ireland's past, Irish folklore, legend, memories, Paranormal, passion, revenge. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Mary O Brien gaped in wonder at the man standing on her doorstep. It was not in her nature to be shy, but she was almost simpering at the unexpected visitor. He really was something out of the ordinary. He was tall, much taller than her, so he looked down into her eyes as he spoke. The voice addressing her was soft, caressing and she watched in fascination the movement of his wide, full lips and sighed at the words that dripped like honey from them.

   “Oh, I do beg your pardon,” she blushed; when she realised, he had finished speaking.

   “Not at all, dear Lady. Make no apologies to me. I was merely asking if you would have a room to let for a weary traveller?”

   “Oh,” she spluttered in confusion. “I don’t rent out rooms, Sir. This is a private house, but you could try the Inn.”

   “I was on my way there, but on passing your home, I noticed it was the finest in the village. I make no excuse that catching site of its lovely owner through a gap in the curtains, made me stop and act as bold as I now am.”

   “Dear me,” Mary blushed again. “But I must admit you’re being quite bold.”

   “Forgive me?” he smiled taking her hand and raising it to his lips. The kiss felt soft and the eyes looking up into hers were the brightest green she had ever seen. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”

   “There is no need,” she caught hold of him. “I mean…I’m sure I can’t let a gentleman such as you sleep at that Inn,” she cast a baleful eye across the village. “After all, I do have many spare rooms, and I’m sure my home would be more suited to you.”

   “You are too kind, dear lady and be sure I’ll pay you well,” with this he pulled a purse from his coat pocket and emptied a mass of silver coins into her hands.

   “Oh, but this is too much,” she gasped.

   “I insist,” he held up a hand. “And may I say it is no more than you are worth.”

He picked up the bag at his feet and waited for her to stand aside. Mary pocketed the thirty pieces of silver, stood back, and allowed the Devil to enter her house.

Hugh was surprised to find they had a visitor, and at his mother’s constant attention on the man. He was obviously rich, from his dress and manner. It had to be someone important if his mother was fussing so much. He had admitted on meeting him, the man was very charismatic, and the hand shaking his was cool, but strong.

   “Are you just passing through, Mr…?”

   “Tanas, Oliver Tanas.”

   “Dear me, how foolish I was not to ask your name,” Mary was mortified, and hoped he would not think her rude and uncouth like the other villagers.

   “Then we were both foolish for neither did I ask your name, dear lady. Though I admit I imagined it to be something saintly.

   “It’s Mary, Mary O Brien. Of course, you have met my son, Hugh, and I am afraid that is all there is in my family. I’m a widow, you see,” she had to let him know she was available. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, Mr Tanas, I’ll see if the girl has our supper ready.”

Hugh was left alone with him once his mother disappeared into the kitchen, and was put out at having to make conversation.

   “Do you like card games?” the man asked, and within minutes they were deep in conversation about the games of poker they had played.

Hugh spent most of his night’s playing cards, and this caused constant trouble with his mother. He was hopeless at the game, and there were many times when she had to pay his gambling debts.

   “Tell you the truth,” he mumbled to his new-found friend. “I lose more than I win.”

   “Perhaps, it’ll change for you. Let us play a few hands after supper.”

   “I’m afraid I can’t,” he shrugged. “I’ve arranged to play with some friends later.”

   “Well, never mind. Some other time, perhaps?”

   “Will you be here for long?”

   “A few weeks, I think.”

   “Are you staying locally?”

   “Why, dear boy, I’m staying here.”

   “You mean here. In this house?”

   “The very same.”

The news seemed to throw Hugh for a moment, and excusing himself, he followed his mother into the kitchen.

   “What’s the idea of having a stranger stay in this house?” he demanded. “I’m talking to you, mother.”

Grabbing his arm, she pulled him out of the servant girl’s hearing and hissed.

   “Listen to me, you little upstart. He’s rich and I want you to treat him well, understand?” She already had their mysterious visitor marked out as husband number two. “Look,” she fished in her pocket and withdrew some of the coins. “And there’s more where this came from. So, treat him well or else…” the threat was left hanging, as she swept past him and went back to her visitor.

   The supper was more elaborate than usual, though their visitor seemed to have little appetite.

   “Is the food not to your liking?” Mary asked.

   “It is delicious, I am sure, but my appetite is not what it was. I’ve recently recovered from an illness.”

   “Dear me, I hope it was nothing serious,” she felt his money slipping from her grasp.

   “Not at all, dear lady. I’m quite recovered, but still unable to eat much.”

   “I’m so glad to hear of your return to health. If there’s anything I can get for you do let me know.”

   “You are truly kind, but I’ll not trouble you for much. I shall be out all day so please do not prepare any food for me. I usually eat on my travels.”

   “What is it you do?” Hugh managed to get the question in before his mother.

   “I’m of independent means, but a scholar of sorts.”

   “What is it you study, Mr Tanas?” Mary was ecstatic. Independent means!

   “You could say the work of the Devil.”

Mary and Hugh looked at one another.

   “Let me explain,” their visitor laughed. “I believe my recent illness was brought about by unsavoury means.”

   “You mean you were cursed?” Mary gasped.

   “Precisely, and I’m not the only one. I have heard about the suffering in this village, and I believe the Devil’s work is being done here. If this is the case, I mean to root out this evil and put a stop to it at once.”

   “Oh, sir, how fortunate we are to have you here with us. I was saying only last evening, wasn’t I Hugh?” she slapped at her son’s elbow. “This place is cursed and I’m sure I know who the cause is as well,” she nodded at their visitor in a very conspiratorial way.

   “Then you’ll be of great service to me,” he smiled.

Hugh left his mother and her visitor deep in conversation. He felt good tonight. He was not sure if it was the fine supper he’d just eaten, or the two silver coins slipped into his hand before he’d left home by the man with a wink and a wish of good luck. Things were about to turn his way for once. Setting his cap at a jaunty angle, he spurred his horse forward and galloped away from the village.

   Mary O Brien’s visitor was proving to be as mysterious as he was handsome. He left the house each morning before she awoke and made his bed up before leaving. The room looked completely undisturbed. Curiosity drove her to check his wardrobe, and the clothes she found hanging there pleased her. Some of his suits were of the finest brocade and lace hung from beneath the cuffs. These were the clothes of a great gentleman. His dressing table also gave her great joy. On it were his comb, brush, and perfume bottles, all were fashioned in the finest silver, even the bottle tops. On that first morning, she waltzed around the room with happiness. This man was about to change her life forever. She took no time in spreading the word of his existence around the village, and the reason for his stay. There were many who listened in awe to her story, and as many more doubted such a paragon of virtue was truly among them. Night after night she paraded him for all to see. Jane O Regan was first on her list. Describing her to Oliver, as he insisted, she call him, as a poor unfortunate and in need of their charity. Jane was impressed and Mary preened herself, throwing her shoulders back in pride at the woman’s reaction. Once they were seated, he immediately enquired to the state of her health.

   “I’m well now, sir,” she blushed under his gaze, and hoped the heat of the fire would be blamed for the sudden redness.

   “Well,” Mary sniffed. “If you ask me, you’re lucky to be alive.”

   “What do you mean?”

   “With that Annie Ryan and her herbs poisoning half the village, you were lucky to survive.”

   “But Annie helped us to get well. She nursed us day and night. No one could be as kind as or more attentive than she.”

   “You lost your little one, didn’t you?”

   “I prefer not to speak of it,” Jane gazed down at her hands.

   “It is sad indeed, when one so young is robbed from us,” Oliver joined in the conversation.

Jane looked up.

   “What do you mean robbed?”

   “Let me explain, dear lady,” he patted her hands. “I was nearly lost to the terrible sickness you suffered from. Had it not been for the wisdom of my doctor, I might have succumbed to the same fate as your child. Luckily, he realised that evil doers among us were causing the sickness, and it was only through his intersession I was saved. Let us hope I can do the same for the many afflicted in this village.”

   “But…but,” Jane stuttered. “You cannot imagine for one moment Annie had anything to do with it? Why, I have known her since she was a baby? There’s not an ounce of harm in the child.”

   “As you wish,” he stood up to leave, and Mary hopped from her seat to join him.

Jane tried to make amends.

   “I’m not saying you’re wrong. I am sure you’re more knowledgeable on this subject than I. It’s just I fear you’re mistaken in choosing Annie as the culprit.”

   “Very well,” he smiled. “Time will tell.”

Jane held the door open and Mary swept past her with a face like thunder. The stranger stopped in the doorway to bid her goodnight.

   “I fear I have offended Mrs. O Brien and your good self in some way, but I don’t know what it is I’ve done.”

   “You’ve done nothing but be a good friend to one who’ll shortly be in need of one,” he donned his hat and reaching into his waistcoat pocket, withdrew a handful of coins. “A small gift,” he took her hand and placed the coin in her palm, closing her fingers around them. “From someone who will hopefully be worthy of your friendship in the future.”

   He left Jane standing open-mouthed in the doorway. The coins in her hands felt warm and she rushed to the table and let them fall onto the wood. There was a small fortune there. She could hardly believe it. Picking up each piece she studied it as if it might disappear at any moment. He had ensured, by his actions that Jane and her family would survive the coming winter. She would have to find some way to repay him for his generosity. His clothes were of the finest materials. So, nothing she could make for him would be worthy, but she’d find a way.

Within a week Oliver Tanas was well known throughout the village, not only for his generosity and wit, but also for his preaching about witchcraft. In those dark times, when ignorance and superstition combined and made a very potent mixture, there were many who believed his words as anything else was beyond their understanding. They were simple folk, mostly hill farmers. They knew little of life outside their community and lived by way of the land. The winter brought with it the cold, the spring was for planting, the summer for heat and the autumn for ploughing. They had few enemies, hidden away as they were in that God-forsaken place and the appearance of this man; this saviour seemed too good to be true. Here was someone who understood the sickness, could root out the cause of it and drive it from the land.

Pat O Malley shook his head in wonder. How anyone could be stupid enough to believe what the man was saying was beyond him. He was on his way home from the Inn, where Oliver was preaching, surrounded as usual by the red-faced drinkers, who hung onto his every word.

   “Your misfortunes were caused by witchcraft,” Oliver hollered. “The sickness is a curse on your house, sent from someone you know. It could be a neighbour, even one you regard as a friend, but trust me, my friends, you are cursed.”

   “Bullshit.”

The crowd stopped their mumbled agreements and parted so Oliver could see who had uttered such profanity.

   “Were you addressing me, Sir?”

   “I was, Sir,” Pat stood, and made a mocking bow.

   “Perhaps, you’d care to repeat that?”

   “I said bullshit.”

There were gasps from the room, and many smiled in anticipation of the coming fight.

   “You are, of course, entitled to your opinion, but perhaps you’d enhance it somewhat further so I might understand?”

Pat laughed in his face, but was stopped by the man calling for drinks for the house Asking Pat to join him at his table, he did so out of curiosity, but refused to accept a drink, preferring to buy his own.

   “You seem very set in your ways,” Oliver smiled at him. “I admire a man who sticks to his opinions.”

   “I know the sickness was brought about by the heat, nothing more. The summer was too hot.”

   “Surely it was as hot in the other villages?”

   “We have different wells, a different water supply than the others. It may well have been the sickness came from there.”

   “You find it impossible that I am right, this village was cursed? That there are many who do the Devil’s work?”

   “Oh, I believe in the Devil,” Pat fixed him with an angry stare. “And speaking of the Devil’s work, what may I ask, have you to gain from your preaching?”

   “Nothing,” Oliver raised his hands. “Nothing at all. I survived a sickness such as this and have made it my life’s work to root out all who’d do such harm.”

   “Well, you’ve come to the wrong place,” Pat emptied his ale mug and stood. “Once the winter sets in it’ll put an end to all this sickness. If I were you, I would not waste my time with these simple folks. It could do more damage than good.”

   “As you say, it’s my time and what I choose to do with it, is for me to decide.”

Pat was almost out the door when the voice stopped him.

   “Perhaps you protest so much, because you fear for someone you know.”

He hesitated, wanting to go back and smash the milksop in the face, but decided against it. It was best not to draw too much attention. He heard the rumours and did not want to add fuel to the flames. They caused him to lay awake night after night worrying about Annie, aware once Mary O Brien had a hand in what was going on, she would not be safe. He had not seen her in over a week and there was no sign of the gypsies either. He even considered going to her, asking her to leave this place with him. They could set up somewhere else. Even if she did not love him, he loved her enough for the two of them and in time…. Things would have to be sorted soon. There was rumours the village would be put into quarantine and no one would be allowed in or out. He planned to take his cart into the nearest town for supplies in a couple of days, but he would leave sooner. Food was running short, and those recovering from the sickness were becoming more demanding in the quest for delicacies. He would set out the next morning. His assistant could manage the shop, and once he sold the new supplies, he would have enough money to start anew somewhere else. He felt better at having come to the decision. Once he was back from the town he would go to Annie, ask her to marry him and keep her safe forever. He sniffed the air as he walked. It had the hint of frost in it and it would not be long before the snows came. There were many arrangements to make for his trip the next day, and a sleepy assistant was woken and told of his plan. Pat went to bed that night a much happier man. In just a short time he might be happier still if Annie accepted his proposal. He hated leaving her now, especially at such a time of unrest, but it was only for two weeks.

Death Cry

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on May 22, 2020
Posted in: banshee, birdsong, hope faith God whispers heaven, books, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, Fairies, Fantasy, fiction, folklore, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, harbinger of death, Haunted Houses, horror, legend, memories, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, screams, sleeplessness, thoughts, wailing cry, Witchcraft, Witches, wraiths, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Chapter One

Her mother named her after a saint, but in truth Annie was not a saint; neither was she a devil. She was just…different, in a time when it was dangerous to be so. The year was 1653, a time of great unrest, when the shadow of Cromwell’s forces moved over the land leaving death and destruction in their wake and bringing untold suffering to a once peaceful nation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “Annie Ryan, you stop sniffling this minute.”

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

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

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

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

   “What do you say, Annie?” Meg smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

   “No,” Annie mumbled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “I know you would.”

   “Was there anyone else there?”

   “No, no one, just me and the girls.”

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

   “No one.”

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

   “They might be sick.”

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

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

The old woman laughed.

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

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

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

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

   “Why for now?”

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

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

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

   “Of course.”

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

   “I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

   “I know you will.”

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

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

The Wraith- Chapter Nine

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on April 12, 2020
Posted in: books, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Haunted Houses, horror, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, sleeplessness, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , . Leave a comment

CHAPTER NINE

         The clock on the dashboard screamed eight minutes past three, as she pulled up outside the school. In that short space of time, between the ringing of the bell and flurry of mother collecting children, the playground and the surrounding street had emptied. Eight minutes was all it took for the cars to drive away with their chattering occupants, and for the teachers to lock the windows and doors. A sob caught in Jill’s throat as she climbed from the car. There was no sign of Toby. The last of the autumn leaves scurried across her path as she ran towards the main door. The only thing that marred the surface of its wood was the large letterbox; there was no knocker or bell to push, as the door remained open during school hours and closed the rest of the time. There was never any need for anyone to knock.

   Trying to control the sobs, Jill beat her fists on the wood. She heard her raps echoing along the empty corridors inside, but there were no approaching footsteps to answer her summons. Running around the side, to the small area where the teachers parked their cars, she groaned. It too was empty. Her throat hurt as she ran back across the playground and out into the street. She had to remain calm; she did not want to be mistaken for a hysterical mother. Perhaps, there was some simple explanation; maybe one of the other mothers gave him a lift home. Her hands shook as she stuck the key in the ignition, and despite the cutting cold, she was sweating. Deciding to drive along the main street in case he wandered off, she steered the car slowly along the road. The place reminded her of a ghost town. Streets were bare, the shop awnings fluttered under the heavy wind, and the few floor signs advertising various newspapers creaked and groaned on hinges. She gave up hope of seeing anyone and was about to drive to the police station, when the door of the post office opened and Mr Jackson, Toby’s teacher appeared, closely followed by the art teacher, Mr. Keane. She pulled up right beside them and jumped from the car. Walking straight up to Mr Jackson, she said.

   “Have you seen Toby? I mean since school finished?”

   “No, I afraid I haven’t.”

   “I had a flat tire and I was late picking him up. I told him to wait inside the bars of the playground, if that ever happened,” the sobs she managed so far to control escaped and she stumbled back against the car.

   “Come now,” Mr Jackson placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sure he just wandered off. We’ll find him.”

   “No, he wouldn’t just wander off. Something has happened to him,” she said, and took the handkerchief he offered.

   “Maybe one of the other mothers drove him home?” Mr Keane echoed her thoughts. “I’ll ring around and find out.”

   “Yes,” his colleague agreed. “Come with us. I’ll open the school. We can use the phone in my office.”

Jill was aware of his hand on her elbow as he guided her across the street. The short walk to the school took forever, and she wanted to run, to scream at them to hurry up.

   The bunch of keys Mr Jackson took from his coat pocket seemed to belong to another time. Each one was huge and more fitting for the doors of a castle or stately home. She heard the clunk of the lock and groan of the wood as he pushed open the door. It was like she was walking in a dream, caught up in some terrible nightmare that she might soon awaken from. There came again the familiar smell of books and chalk dust, as they walked along the corridors.

   “I am vice principal,” Mr Jackson explained, as he led her into a small office. “So, I have the rare privilege of having a room of my own.”

   “Some of us have to make do with the teachers’ lounge,” Mr Keane lisped.

Even though she knew he was just trying to lighten the mood, his voice grated on her already unravelling nerves.

   Jill sank into the offered chair and waited as the computer was turned on. It took an age for the machine to boot up, and she dug her nails into the palms of her hands to stop herself from screaming. Finally, he moved the mouse, searching the screen for Toby’s term. The printer behind him whizzed to life as he selected the right one. Jumping up from his seat, he took the four sheets and handed two to his colleague.

   “Go down to the principal’s office,” he held out the bunch of keys. “It will be quicker that way.”

Without a word, Mr Keane did as he was asked. Jill knew there were over thirty boys in Toby’s class, and it would take time to contact all the parents. She listened to the first few calls, but as each one failed to bear fruit, she grew even more anxious. Waiting until had had hung up on his last call, she said. “I’m going to look outside and ask in the shops if anyone has seen him.”

   “Promising idea.” His face was pale. “I’ll keep at this and come and find you if I have any news.”

The streets were as deserted as before, and for a moment she laughed, as the situation was surreal. It was as though she was caught up in one of those trashy horror films that played out late at night. The lone woman trapped in a deserted village with the menace of some terrible evil lurking around every corner. But this was not a film, and the evil that lurked was very real.

   Her first few inquiries were met with a resounding no, as she asked if any of the shopkeepers had seen her son. A few took the time to explain there were so many children running around after school was out, it was hard to remember one child. She had finished both sides of the main street, when she saw the teachers running to meet her.

   “Well?” She asked, hopefully.

   “We managed to get in touch with most of the parents,” Mr Jackson was breathless. “None of them drove Toby home. A few remember seeing him waiting inside the playground. Five or six were not in, so we can try them later.”

   “We should ring the police,” Mr Keane said. “The few we haven’t been able to contact live in the opposite direction to your house. They would not be passing the door and we’re wasting time.”

At the mention of the word Police, Jill’s knees buckled. If it were not for the restraining hands of the men, she would have sunk to the ground. Between them they helped her back to the school. Once seated in the small office, Mr Keane left to make the dreaded phone call. It was a silent agreement between both men she should not have to listen as they made the missing person’s report. Jill warmed her hands on the mug of steaming coffee handed her, but she didn’t try to drink. She was afraid she might be sick.

   “They’re on their way,” she heard the gentle lisp behind her.

   “This will be nothing more than a storm in a teacup,” Mr Jackson tried to smile. “Boys go missing all the time. They’re like that, always up to some mischief or other.”

Mr Keane joined in, assuring her what his colleague said was quite true, but she heard very little as the voice inside her head started up. She closed her eyes and listened. It seemed so far away that she had to strain to hear.

   “Please,” her voice was higher that she meant it to be. “Can you be quiet?”

   “Of course,” the men mumbled, and she was instantly sorry she had sounded so sharp. “We’ll go outside, and let you have a few minutes alone.”

Once they left the office, Jill tried to listen. Never had she experienced such a thing. In the past, she had dreams that came true and she was a dab hand at reading the tarot, but that was just a party game. Now she was either losing her mind or some strange door was opening in her brain. She had heard something, and to her surprise she didn’t have to search very hard to find it again. It was waiting as soon as she had closed her eyes. The terrified cry of her child. Toby. Her mind screamed and in reply there came the whimper, “Mam, help me.”

Paul O Farrell was not prepared for the whirlwind that came through the office door.

   “Whoa,” he grabbed the woman, as she charged towards him.

   “Someone has taken my son,” Jill screamed. “I heard him.”

   “Steady now,” Paul had to use all his strength to hold her. “Come back inside and we’ll sort this out.”

   “What don’t you understand?” She struggled to break free. “My child has been kidnapped.”

   “Listen to me,” he held her shoulders. “My men are searching as we speak. Come inside and we’ll talk.”

Paul couldn’t believe it was happening again. Jill’s wild-eyed look and clenched jaw was something he’d seen before in another mother.

   “I have to find him,” she dissolved into sobs. “I have to get him back, I’m his mother.”

   “We’ll find him, don’t worry,” Paul assured her.

His words sobered her, and he thought for a moment she had decided to yield to his suggestions, but that was not the case. The reason she stopped struggling was because she remembered the old newspapers and the face of the detective in charge of the cases. Now she became the lioness fighting for her cub.

   “You’ll find him,” she sneered. “The way you did all the other children?”

She didn’t care her words had caused him pain, and ignored how his face turned ashen, but the venom was released, and she now felt drained. They stared at one another, and to break the terrible tension, Mr Jackson intervened.

   “Let’s go into the office,” he said. “We can talk there.”

Jill allowed him to lead her back inside. The detective, who introduced himself sat behind the desk.

   “I have sent some of my men to your home, to check if Toby has tried to get there by himself.”

   “I would have seen him on the road,” her eyes flashed with anger, and she clenched her teeth, trying to stay in control.

   “Boys sometimes take shortcuts,” he said. “They know the quickest way through the fields.”

   “Perhaps local boys do,” she muttered. “But my son is new to the area and he would not know the way home.”

   “Nevertheless, we have to rule it out.”

   “I told you someone has taken him.”

   “How can you be so sure?”

   “I’m his mother, I just know.” She knew it would be useless trying to explain how she knew, and he would dismiss her as some crackpot.

Still, to her dismay, he picked up the phone and dialled.

   “I want roadblocks set up on all the roads leading out of village,” he told the voice on the other end of the line. “Have someone check the hills as well. I want nothing left to chance.”

   “Can I go now?” Jill asked when he replaced the receiver.

   “I have a few more questions I need to ask,” he pulled a notebook from his pocket and flipped it open. “Are you in contact with Toby’s father?”

   “I have his address, if that’s what you’re asking.” She was too angry to be civil.

Somewhere out in the cold, gathering darkness, her child was in danger.

   “Are relations between you hostile?” he asked. “Could he have taken your son?”

   “No, of course not,” her heart leapt at the question, if only it were that simple. At least she knew Joe would take care of him. “He walked out on us over six months ago. The last thing he would need to spoil his new-found freedom is the burden of a child.”

   “He’ll have to be informed,” the detective said. “Would you like me to take care of that?”

   “Yes, if you would,” she could not bear to hear his voice, or the accusations he was bound to throw at her when he heard his son was missing. “I have the number here.”

She slipped her hand into her coat pocket and withdrew her mobile. Despite her anger, she had recorded his new number in the memory. Scrolling through the list, she located it and handed the phone to the detective. He added this to the information on his pad before passing it back to her.

   A sudden shuffling in the corridor outside made him look towards the door. Nodding to whoever stood behind her, he got up.

   “If you’ll excuse me for a moment.”

She didn’t acknowledge this, and it was not until he left the room, she became aware Mr. Jackson was still there.

   “Can I get you something to drink?” He asked.

   “No, thank you, I’m fine,” she said. “Why did the detective leave like that?”

Without waiting for an answer, she slipped from her seat and walked out into the corridor. One of the classroom doors was open, and she followed the drone of the voices inside. The detective and three uniformed officers stood around one of the desks, looking down at something. She edged closer, not wanting them to hear and hide whatever it was they had lying there. A small gap opened between the men, and she saw the familiar red flash of Toby’s school satchel.