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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.

Death Cry

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on May 21, 2020
Posted in: banshee, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Death Cry, Eerie Places, Fairies, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, harbinger of death, horror, memories, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, screams, sleeplessness, wailing cry, wraiths, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , . Leave a comment

PROLOGUE

The sun had set on what was a very warm midsummer’s day in Ireland. It no sooner disappeared below the horizon, than it was replaced by the full moon. The glowing red clouds left behind with the promise of a warmer day to come, reached out caressed the moon and turned it to blood. An uneasy quiet shrouded the countryside. Night creatures rose from slumbering to begin their nocturnal foraging, tiny grey bats swooped through the still air and the call of the night owl was heard from deep within the forests. It was a night like any other, until the wailing started.

   The animals heard it first, picking up their ears and sniffing the air. The sound caused both fur and feather to rise. None of them waited to hear it reach a crescendo preferring to take cover in their dens, warrens, and tree trunks. It was a sound to chill the blood of any listener. Starting with a sigh and rising to a mournful keen that cut into the soul. It was the lament of someone who had known great sorrow and loss.

   The people who heard its warning crossed themselves in fear. Some muttered a silent prayer for its intended victim before locking any open window and pulling the curtains closed, despite the cloying heat. Children tossed fitfully in their sleep sensing the cry. Farmers, who were still at work in the fields, left what they were doing and hurried home.

Those who understood its meaning dared not speak of it. Fearful glances were exchanged, televisions were turned up as loud as possible, but nothing could mask the cry. It invaded the air, crept through cracks and keyholes, it would be heard. There was nothing to stop it. Man, despite all his modern technology, was not adept to deal with such a thing.

   Its voice had haunted countless generations of the O Brien family, warning them of a coming death, but it had not been heard for many years. Now, it was back, and with a vengeance. It continued all through the night only quieting with the coming of dawn. The old, who understood too well its voice, lay awake until the last notes faded in the lightening air. Never had they heard its cry last for so long or be more powerful. Instinct told them this was to be no ordinary passing for its prey. The voice they heard wanted more.

 She was finally awake. The Dark One’s curse was almost at an end. Gathering her waist length hair about her, she raked her fingers through it picking out dead leaves and bits of twigs. She had lain in limbo throughout the centuries and was only allowed on the earth for a short time, to herald each death of that accursed family. This was what she had waited for. He was the last male in his line and soon he would be no more. All the evil and wickedness would be ended, and she could rest in peace. Her crying would cease once he was dead. She would wrap herself around him, her arms the embrace of a cold lover and they would return to the dark earth together. He would have no other choice; he was powerless to resist her. There is no escaping the cry of the Banshee

The Wraith-Epilogue

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on May 12, 2020
Posted in: birdsong, hope faith God whispers heaven, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Halloween, Haunted Houses, memories, monsters, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, thoughts, twlight, Witchcraft, Witches, wraiths, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

         The lights on the Christmas tree twinkled as Jill bent to push the brightly wrapped presents underneath its spiky branches. It gave her a sense of pride to know the tree came from her own wood and would be returned there once the festivities were over. The new bike Toby hinted about sat against the wall. The light from the sitting room fire dancing across its metallic red paint, made it glow and she smiled, imagining his delight when he saw it. Her parents were coming next day for Christmas lunch and planned to stay until the New Year, a prospect that would have once horrified her. A deeper understanding developed between Jill and her mother and she now found it easier to talk to the woman who offered her life in exchange for hers. So much had changed over the months she was forced to brush aside the memory. Tom would also be there for lunch, but not Paul who was spending the holidays with his sons. He had not forgotten them though, and his presents, brought along earlier in the day, sat beneath the tree.

   The turkey, an enormous one, presented to her by one of the women at the surgery, would need to go in the oven at 6am, but that would not be a problem. Jill slept very little now after abandoning the sleeping pills on which she had become too reliant. Switching off the downstairs lights, she climbed the stairs, glad of the feel of Bess’s hot breath on her legs. Toby was fast asleep, but the excitement of what lay in store would wake him earlier than normal.

   The old dog lay down beside her mistress’s bed. Jill’s eyes were too tired to read so she sat in bed and drew her knees up around her. It was still many hours until dawn and it was doubtful sleep would come. All around her the house stretched and yawned as it settled for the night. She now knew every creak of its floorboards and the small scurrying from the mice in the attic overhead no longer made her heart pound as it used to do. It was Christmas Eve; they were safe and there was nothing to fear. She repeated this over and over in her head. They were safe, and there was nothing to fear. Soon it would be a New Year, a new beginning and the memories would fade with time. Still, she looked towards the window, picturing the inky blackness outside. She couldn’t wait for summer and the long, bright days. Maybe then she would sleep.

The Wraith-chapter thirty-seven

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on May 11, 2020
Posted in: birdsong, hope faith God whispers heaven, books, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Halloween, Haunted Houses, horror, memories, monsters, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, sleeplessness, thoughts, twlight, Witchcraft, Witches, wraiths, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , . 1 Comment

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

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

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

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

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

   “Are you in pain?” Her mother asked.

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

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

Instantly a nurse appeared, carrying a steel bowl.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “How are you feeling?”

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

   “Sore,” she managed to croak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “What did you tell Toby?”

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

   “And he believed you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “Liar,” she smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “Can you ever forgive me?”

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

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

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

   “I know what you mean,” Jill agreed.  

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

   “How is he?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “No doubt he will,” she laughed.

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

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

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

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

The Wraith-chapter thirty six

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on May 10, 2020
Posted in: birdsong, hope faith God whispers heaven, books, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Halloween, Haunted Houses, horror, letting go, memories, monsters, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, thoughts, twlight, Witchcraft, Witches, wraiths, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “I’ve been waiting for you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jill closed her eyes and waited for the pain.

   “Stop that now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “Mam, where’s Toby?”

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

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

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

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

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

   “Well, yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

Before the Wraith could answer, Jill said.

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

   “And what is that?”

   “My death,” Jill said.

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

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

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

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

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

   “Mam, stop that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “Where have you been?” the Wraith asked.

They heard the Wraith ask.

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

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

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

The Wraith-chapter thirty-five

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on May 9, 2020
Posted in: birdsong, hope faith God whispers heaven, books, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Halloween, Haunted Houses, memories, monsters, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, twlight, Witchcraft, Witches, wraiths, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

         Jill’s isolation meant she was spared the outcry surrounding Rachael’s funeral. She later learned thousands turned out, as a wave of mourning at the loss of such innocence swept the country. A mysterious fire started in the house of Dominic Jackson and most of the contents were destroyed before the fire brigade got it under control. The fire starter would not be prosecuted, as no one saw anything or anybody in the vicinity. Or if they had, they weren’t about to turn in the person, who had done the village a favour. Though the fire cleansed only the building, it made those living on either side feel better such evil should be razed to the ground. The news the local Co Council planned to clear the site was met with relief; its ruins not a stain and constant reminder of the evil among them.

Jill spent another sleepless night, her last one on earth as she saw it. Both her parents attended Rachael’s funeral and her mother recounted word for word things she witnessed.

   “Her father was in bits,” she told Jill. “I don’t know how he managed to stand, poor man.”

   “Christ, woman,” Jill heard her father mutter, as he led his wife from the room. “Doesn’t she have enough to worry her?”

   “I was only saying,” the argument continued down the hallway until the slamming sitting room door muffled it.

She couldn’t think about Tom and his suffering. Now, she needed all her strength to make it through the next few hours. She planned to spend as much time as possible with Toby, but it was difficult to make him stay by her side. His abduction earned him a fame of sorts, and there was a constant stream of callers from school asking him to play. He held court in one of the outbuildings. Jill eavesdropped once, to ensure he was sticking to the story rehearsed. To her relief he was, and while the tale of the men in the masks was embellished at each telling, they now wore the masks of the devil, pointed horns and all. He did as he was told.

   Today was no different, and she couldn’t deny him his few hours of fame by ordering him to stay indoors. Sighing, she closed the door on the group of children and turned to where her father waited.

   “I’ve been thinking,” he nodded towards the kitchen and she walked in. “Your mother is watching one of her shows,” He closed the door quietly and tiptoed across the stone flags.

   “What’s wrong?” Jill whispered as she lifted the chair from beneath the table and placed it gently down to avoid scraping the wood on the stone.

Her father did the same and took his place opposite her.

   “I’ve been thinking,” his voice so low she had to clear away the condiments that sat between them and lean closer to hear.

   “I have a few pounds squirreled away, it’s not a fortune, I grant you, but enough to help you make a fresh start.”

   “I don’t understand, Dad,” She was puzzled. “What do you mean?”

   Listen, girl,” he grabbed her hands so tight it hurt. “After the funeral today, after I witnessed the suffering of that poor man, I managed to give your mother the slip for a few minutes. I went into one of those internet cafes. There’s a plane leaving Shannon tonight at six for Amsterdam. I got tickets for you and Toby.”

   “But, Dad,” she tried to speak, but he raised a hand to stop her.

   “I know Amsterdam is not a great starting point, but they were the only seats available. You could spend a week there and see how you like it. If you don’t, you can always move on. Now, stop interrupting me,” he saw how her mouth opened and closed trying to find the right words. “Anyway, it will be a fresh start and that thing, that spirit will get confused looking for you. Sure, she won’t think to look there.”

   “Oh, Dad,” Jill felt her heart swell with love at the innocence of his actions and she started to cry.

Her father had never found it easy to display his feelings and there were times, especially during her teenage years when she accused him of not loving her, but his actions now left her no doubt.

   “Stop now, girl,” he looked fearfully at the kitchen door. “If your mother hears, she’ll be in asking questions.”

Jill managed to drag her hands free and searched in the sleeve of her jumper for a tissue.

   “Use this,” her father pulled another sail-sized handkerchief from his trousers pocket.

Jill wiped her eyes, breathing in the familiar smell of mints and tobacco trapped within the linen.

   “There is no escaping the Wraith,” she folded the handkerchief and handed it back to him. “We’re tied together by my actions. I doesn’t matter where I go, she will find me. I could hide in a cave in Alaska and she would know where to look.”

Her father was no longer looking at her. He took to kneading the handkerchief between his fingers, and Jill realised, he knew this. He was trying to protect the one person he loved most in the world.

   “You know something, Dad?” she laid her hand on his. “I don’t mind. Really, I don’t,” she assured him as she saw his look of disbelief. “If Toby is safe, I can face anything.”

Instead of spending the remaining time as she envisioned with her son, she stayed with her father, recalling better times and laughing over shared memories; interrupted only by Toby’s demands for snacks and drinks for his entourage. Her mother, too engrossed in her afternoon talk shows, left them alone, and they were free to sip tea and bask in the love of a father and his only child. Jill knew, as she watched her father’s face crease up in smiles, as he recounted yet another family tale that she was officiating at her own wake.

Outside the light began to dim as night closed in. Headlights from cars lit the yard outside, as parents came to collect their children.

   “Will you deal with this?” Jill asked her father, when the first car appeared.

   “No problem, girl,” he eased his way out of the chair. “I’ll tell them you’re having a lie down.”

The commotion in the yard wasn’t missed by her mother, who no sooner had she seen the lights, made it her business to go see who it was. She didn’t try to refute her husband’s story about Jill resting, but relished the attention of the women, who consoled her suffering, then marvelled at the return of her grandson. Jill watched from behind the net curtains, aware these women only wanted to gossip. Denied the facts by Jill’s refusal to talk to the newspapers, they send their child to play there, in the hope the boy or one of his relations would fill in the blanks.

   I don’t envy you,” Jill thought, as she watched each boy climb in the back of the waiting car. No doubt they’d be grilled on the way home.

   Taking some chicken portions from the fridge, she turned on the oven in the old gas cooker. Tonight, she’d make one of Toby’s favourite dishes, barbecued chicken and chips. She wanted him to remember this meal, this night for the rest of his life. Not in a bad way, but in a way, that would make him feel warm every time he recalled it. No matter what her mother said, she would smile and ignore it.

   “God, it’s freezing out there,” her mother came in, rubbing the frost from her arms. “I’ll do that if you want?” She eyed the array of jars Jill set out on the table to make the sauce.

   “No, its fine, Mam,” Jill smiled. “You go sit by the fire. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

   “Okay, the news is on in a minute anyway,” she left the room, glad not to get her hands dirty.

Jill marinated the chicken and placed it on a tray. Oven chips would do as a complement, no need to waste the gas.

   “I fed the dogs,” Toby stormed into the room, just as Jill shut the oven door.

   “Good boy now wash your hands,” Jill ordered.

She studied him as he ran the soap between his fingers. He was growing fast, his new trousers barely reached his ankles, and he only had them a couple of months. Despite the kitchen’s lone bulb, there was no hiding the highlights in his hair. It changed colour of late, become darker, like his father’s, but the flecks of coppery-red among the shiny tresses came from her. His eyes though, remained the same and he turned them to full effect on her now.

   “Are you okay, Mam?”

   “Of course,” she handed him a towel. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

   “I don’t know,” she waited as he dried between each finger. “Just something the lads said.”

   “What something?” She could feel her throat grow tight.

   “They were asking me if Mr Jackson was one of the bad men. I did what you told me, I said I didn’t know that they all had masks on.”

   “Well, that’s all right then, isn’t it?” She waited to see what would come next.

   “Yeah, I know, but…”

   “But?”

   “Well, Tommy said, that his mother said, that if Mr Jackson was one of the bad men who took me, then you must have known something about it, because you were always talking to him.”

   “What!” Jill could feel the colour draining from her face.

   “I know, he’s a fool,” Toby threw aside the towel and sat down at the table. “Me and the lads are out with him. He is a pig, but I wish I could have told him, you know. About Rachael’s Mam and stuff, but I can’t.”

   “No, Toby, you can’t, and you know why, don’t you?” Jill knelt beside her son, repeating again the reasons why. “We would all be in terrible trouble if anyone found out how we found you. What we did was against the law and a lot of good people would go to jail for helping me. You understand, don’t you?”

   “Yeah, I know, and I’ll never tell because I crossed my heart and everything,” he reached out and brushed a stray hair from her face. “But I know Mr Jackson is dead, the lads told me, and the other bad men too.”

   “Yes, they are, but that had nothing to do with you,” his touch made Jill’s throat grow tight with unshed tears.

   “Yeah, I know. Rachael’s Mam killed them.

   “How do you know that?

   “Rachael told me.”

   “When?” Jill tried to keep her voice steady.

   “When we were in that place, you know?” He was bored from her questions.

   “Oh, right,” Jill stood and made a great show of checking on the chicken. “What did Rachael, say?”

   “She said her Mam would freak out when she found them. That she would be so mad at the bad men she might tear them limb from limb, but she was always saying stupid things like that,” he looked up to heaven and sighed,” Girls.”

   Jill’s hands shook as she helped him set the table for dinner. The gossips in the village felt she knew about her son’s disappearance. That was it, the final straw; and she was glad he would no longer live in this place. Despite her fear she’d somehow manage to get through this night with as much normality as possible. Later, when the house was quiet, she’d write Toby a letter explaining the truth about what happened. She could post it to her solicitor on her way through the village later with instructions he’d receive it on his twenty-fifth birthday. By then, he would be mature enough to understand her actions. She would also fashion a makeshift will and get her father to witness it. The house would be sold, the proceeds put in trust for her son, with instructions that her parents would be his main guardians, but giving Joe visitation rights, should he decide to ask for such. Now all she had to do was get through dinner and put her son to bed as though everything was all right.

She’d visit the graveyard as late as possible. Although it was a weeknight, the pubs would be busy as those who attended the funeral would have tales to tell. No one could blame them if they drank a little too much that night. Many of the pubs’ patrons entrusted their children to the care of Dominic Jackson, and the horror of what he did and what he might have continued to do, would reverberate for many years to come.

The Wraith

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on May 9, 2020
Posted in: birdsong, hope faith God whispers heaven, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Halloween, Haunted Houses, horror, memories, monsters, passion, revenge, scary, sleeplessness, twlight, Witchcraft, Witches, wraiths, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

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

The Wraith-chapter thirty four

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on May 8, 2020
Posted in: birdsong, hope faith God whispers heaven, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Halloween, Haunted Houses, insomnia, memories, monsters, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, Witchcraft, Witches, wraiths, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

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

   “You look done in,” Paul said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “What did you do with it?”

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

There was no disagreeing with that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looked at her in dismay.

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

   “With the thing, the…”

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

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

The frost-coated grass crunched beneath his feet.

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

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

   “Tonight.”

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

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

   “Perhaps, I should leave it until tomorrow night?

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

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

   “Will you come to the funeral?”

His question startled her.

   “I couldn’t bear it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “Thank you.”

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

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

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

Jill took the diary and slipped it inside her coat.

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

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

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

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

The Wraith-chapter thirty-two

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on May 6, 2020
Posted in: birdsong, hope faith God whispers heaven, Can a heart be strong enough to survive the grave?, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Halloween, Haunted Houses, horror, monsters, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, sleeplessness, thoughts, Witchcraft, Witches, wraiths, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “What the fuck was that?” Christy asked.

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

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

   “Should I look?” Christy asked.

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

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

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

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

   “Is she here?” Tom asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She ran out and round the back of the cottage.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “Are you Rachael’s Mammy?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “Hi Dad,” Rachael waved at her father.

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

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

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

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

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

   “Go up,” Paul nodded to Jill and Tom.

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

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

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

   “I’m so sorry,” Jill said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “Did the children?” Tom asked.

   “You’re a hero,” Jill assured Paul.

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

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

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

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

They knew who he meant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Wraith- chapter twenty-eight.

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on May 2, 2020
Posted in: birdsong, hope faith God whispers heaven, books, Eerie Places, Fantasy, fiction, Ghost, ghost hunting, gloom, Gothic, Gothic novel, graves, graveyards, Halloween, Haunted Houses, horror, insomnia, letting go, memories, monsters, Paranormal, passion, revenge, scary, thoughts, twlight, Witchcraft, Witches, wraiths, writers, writing. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

         What happened the last night proves I am sane? I know you thought otherwise, but you’re wrong. There’s something haunting me. I dismissed the strange things, the presence, and the fleeting shadows as nothing more than the working of an overtaxed mind. The sleeping pills helped and rested, I could relax a little and think more clearly. I’ve heard nothing from the others, as they expect all is going as planned and I’ll be there tonight. This gives me some much-needed breathing space and allows me to put my plan into action. I bought a litre of whiskey from the off licence this morning and could brush aside the owner’s jokes, as he wrapped my purchase. Neil Galvin is a cheerful man, and I excused my reason for buying alcohol as a gift for an ailing friend. I’ve been tee total, and in the past, I’ve been outspoken about the demon drink. I think my explanation was accepted. I’ve become overcautious and more suspicious, though I doubt Neil took any notice of my blushing stammers.

   “So, they’ve finally driven you to drink,” he laughed, referring to those I work with. “I said it would happen sooner than later.”

I heard his merriment, even after I closed the shop door. I wonder what it’s like to be normal; to have no secrets and nothing to set one aside from the rest of humanity. But I digress. Back to tonight.

   I’d taken my customary sleeping pill about ten-o- clock and by eleven was feeling the effects. Making sure the alarm was set and all the windows and doors securely locked, I climbed the stairs with nothing further to burden my mind. The bedroom was warm, but I turned the heating up a notch. The nights are colder, and I enjoy my comforts. I turned the key in the door, I’ve started to do so since the nightmare of the shadowy figure. I curse my foolishness at such things but feel it rash to ignore such a safety precaution. After all, if it was a ghost, I’m sure nothing would stop it, certainly not the hollow timbers on the door. I remember smiling at the idea of some earthbound spirit intent on revenge. Now I’m not sure.

   I must’ve dozed off with the heat of the room and the calming effect of the pill, I couldn’t fail to do so. Something woke me. I was not sure what it was, and I lay listening. The only sound came from the ticking clock beside my bed. I looked towards its luminous dial to find only an hour had passed. It was after midnight. I couldn’t settle down and after much tossing and turning, decided to make a milky drink. If it didn’t work, I’d take another pill. I hadn’t thought about the boy all day, and as I pulled on my robe, his face flashed before my eyes. It’s natural as the time was upon us. I shrugged aside the image and went out on the landing. Flicking the wall switch, I saw the bulb in the hall below had blown and the glow from the landing did little to light my way. The shadows at the bottom of the stairs were darker than I remembered, and I climbed down into their inky blackness with growing trepidation. I admit my hand was trembling as I turned the handle on the sitting room door and felt along the wall for the switch. The bulb here had also blown, and I stumbled around in the dark trying to locate a lamp. Cursing under my breath, as I knocked my knee against the coffee table, I felt my way like a blind man. The smooth polished surface of the sideboard met my fingers and I knew the lamp was within reach. The cord hanging beneath the shade knocked against the back of my hand and I reached out grateful for its touch. Soon the comforting glow would dispel the gloom and I’d get myself together. But before I could pull it, I heard something close by. Why didn’t I turn the lamp on? I’ve asked myself this a thousand times. The next few minutes played out like some horror movie; I know now I could not have pulled the cord as my fingers refused to obey the commands of my tortured brain. I smelt it before I heard it. The hairs stood on the back of my neck, that’s not a cliché, you know. It happens. I waited, listening in the dark. Something brushed by me, something soft, fluid, boneless, but nevertheless real. I think I cried out; I know my stomach retched at the slight breeze passing my face. It smelt of rotten meat.

   “Who’s there?” I called.

There were sounds within the room. They circled the air and I strained to hear the evil whispers. They sounded far away and indistinct, as though someone was speaking under water, but I caught some of the words. They spoke of revenge and promised terrible suffering to those who offended it. The words were those of a madwoman, I’m sure it was a woman, and I was sobbing at the images she conjured. Fingers clutched at my neck; I felt the bones digging into my skin. The nails felt jagged and cut into my flesh. I felt myself sinking and unknown to me I was still clutching the cord. As I fell beneath the weight of the onslaught, I pulled the cord and the room blazed into light.

   There was nothing there.

No demon or spirit stood waiting and the pressure disappeared from my throat. Using the sideboard for support, I stood and waited for the pounding in my heart to subside. I could’ve dismissed this as another of my nightmares, but for one thing. When I looked into the mirror my skin showed the dark bruising left behind by the fingers of my attacker. Pulling aside the collar of my pyjama top, I saw the skin was broken in places. My fingers were covered not only in blood, but a brown, dry substance smelling of earth. I saw reflected the door to my office was open. I know I locked it before going to bed and I swear I heard my teeth chattering as I approached the darkness. The light here flicked to life, but to my dismay the safe in which I keep this diary and my collection of pills was torn open. I say torn, as there’s no other word to describe the condition of the metal. The silver handle was wrenched up, snapping the stout bolts holding the door in place. This diary lay open on the floor as though someone was reading it. The pages were marked with the same earth as my neck and whoever discovers the book must understand the marks are not my work. Neither are they the work of anything mortal. Before I searched the contents of the safe, I went from room to room to make sure there wasn’t a door or window jimmied open. Common sense told me the alarm would’ve gone off had an intruder tried to gain entry, but I had to make sure. To my horror I saw it wasn’t sweat sticking the clothes to my body, but I’d wet myself. This gave me reason to recall the time in the woods at Erebus and the first murder. After changing out of my wet pants, I went back downstairs to survey the damage in my office. Little time elapsed since my encounter with whatever it was invaded my home, and the night outside was dark as ever. I knew whatever presence was there had gone, and while I still trembled as I resumed the search of the office. I wasn’t as terrified as before. The letters to Christy and Freddy remained untouched, but to my horror, the bag containing the collection of sleeping pills was gone. I looked behind my desk and the chairs dotting the room, hoping in its haste the searcher threw this aside, but it wasn’t there. The realisation made me sick, and I’d to sit my knees shook so much. The bottle of whiskey I intended to use to wash down the pills sat on top of the filing cabinet, and the glow from its amber contents seemed to mock my plight. I was trapped; I felt every ounce of hope drain from my body. There was no use going to the doctor requesting a refill of the prescription as he’d mumbled about my becoming too dependent on the drug. The only other doctor I know is Freddy and while I’m sure he’d supply without question the amount of morphine I need, it meant going to the cottage. Why do these things happen? Why after all the deaths do the fates decide to strike back now? I must think, find the answer, before it’s too late. Time is running out, just 16 hours to go.

   “My throat hurts,” Toby sat up in the bed and looked around for his mother.

When he realised where he was, he sank back down on the rancid pillows and waited for the flames that coursed through his body to die down. His eyes wept with infection; a hard crust coated his lashes, and it hurt when he tried to wipe it away. Even his tongue felt strange when he licked his parched lips, and despite his urgent need for water, he could not get his legs to move. The fridge seemed miles away and he no longer had the strength to get out of bed.

   “Mam,” he croaked again, believing in his fevered condition the word alone would bring her running to his side.

But there was no soothing hand to stroke his hair and no soft words to still the pounding of his aching heart. His cries of pain and terror were particularly piteous and the gentle ghosts that surrounded his bed, cried along with him.

   “Hold his head up.” He was hoisted up and a water bottle pressed against his lips. “Drink, Toby,” Rachael ordered, tilting the bottle higher.

Most of it dribbled down his chest, and despite the soreness of his throat, he gulped at the life-saving liquid.

   “Better?” She asked when he had drunk his fill.

The air in front of him shimmered like a heat haze and he couldn’t quite make out where she stood, but he nodded to one of the moving shapes within the mist.

   “I think you must have the flu or something.” He felt her sit on the bed beside him.

   “Poor Toby,” a hand belonging to one of the boys, stroked his arm.

   “He’s very sick,” Rachael whispered, but Toby was beyond hearing as he had drifted off to sleep.

The stench from the portable toilet now vied with those of the damp and mould. His stomach, unused to the onslaught of so many fizzy drinks and sweets, had rebelled, and he was forced to use the toilet several times. With no proper washing facilities, the hands that touched what remained of the food, were dirty and riddled with germs. The stale air within the cellar was a breeding ground for bacteria and a child such as Toby was bound to suffer the effects.

   Rachael, who had become a mother to all the boys, paced the room, darting fearful glances towards the bed. Toby tossed and turned, trying to fight his way free of the fever’s hold, and she bit down on her lip as she watched the struggle.

   “Will he be all right?” Raymond whispered.

   “If we get him to drink more water, he might,” Rachael said. “That’s what my Mam always made me do when I had the flu, drink loads of stuff.”

   “There’s only one more bottle of water left,” Paul opened the fridge and peeped inside. “Will that be enough?”

   “I don’t know,” Rachael sighed. “This one is almost empty.”

The boys looked at the bottle she held, each thinking the same thing. It wasn’t a lot, not when Toby was so sick.

   “What if he dies?” Paul asked.

   “Oh, he won’t die,” Rachael threw her eyes up to the heavens. “No one dies from the flu.”

   “But if he does,” Paul persisted.

   “Maybe it would be better,” though Raymond’s voice was low, the words seemed to echo in the quiet of the room.

   “What do you mean?” Rachael gasped. “That’s a wicked thing to say.”

   “Well,” Raymond brushed a cold hand along Toby’s sweat-soaked forehead. “If he dies like this, then the bad men won’t be able to hurt him.”

No one spoke as they took time to digest this. They knew what lay in store for the boy and each one was thinking the same thing, perhaps this way was the kindest.

   “No,” Rachael unscrewed the top of the water bottle. “We have to make him better.”

   “But what about the bad men?” Raymond asked.

   “My mother is coming to get me,” Rachel motioned at Paul to lift Toby up. “She’ll save Toby.”

   “Oh, you’re always saying that,” Raymond huffed. “And she never comes.”

   “She’s coming this time and she’s going to take us all out of here,” Rachael promised. “I just know it.”

They watched as Toby drank, all willing him to get better. They were tired of the cold and dark, tired of wandering in twilight. Though the stench of the room was beyond them, Rachael looked fearfully towards the overflowing toilet and knew this was making Toby sick. Being seven years old she knew a bit about germs and other stuff, and this little knowledge was enough. She felt in her heart what she had said was true. Her mother was coming to get her. Though she wished it countless times before, something deep down inside told her that her mother was coming closer by the day.