by P L Kane
A couple of things in his dad’s writings caught Mitch’s attention, however: the sections about familiars, for starters. How they would be animals like birds, hares or, more commonly, black cats. He’d scratched his stubbled chin at that one, cocked an ear out for the animal which fitted that description currently sharing the house with him. Nothing. Familiars would keep an eye on their masters, warn them of danger and generally protect them. It was a ridiculous notion, but what if that stray had appeared to try to warn his father about impending doom?
Mitch shook his head, even batted away the thoughts physically with a hand. That someone might think his dad was, what, a warlock? But there was that talk about Bella, wasn’t there? Communing with the dead was one of the skills of a witch, wasn’t it? And there was no doubting that if she’d existed a few hundred years ago, Bella might have been burned at the—
The second thing to make him pause. That method of execution favoured by witch hunters both here and abroad, whether it was tying them to a stake on a bonfire or just catching them and setting fire to them on the spot, he couldn’t just dismiss the way his father had died as a coincidence. This wasn’t about whether Mitch believed in such things such as witchcraft or whatever, it was about whether someone else did and had acted accordingly. Someone insane. Someone dangerous. Someone who, if he kept looking into all this, might start to see Mitch as a threat as well.
Good, he’d thought. Come at me – I prefer to see who I’m dealing with!
Who I’m fighting.
Moving on, he’d discovered the next thing his dad had been obsessed with. A folder all about cults and the formation of them. Interestingly, he seemed to be doing this research because of the Commune that had got a foothold in Green Acres, something that made Mitch raise an eyebrow. Did his death have some kind of link to those people up there? Thomas had certainly done some digging into the matter, noting that it was a loophole that had enabled the collective to set up a presence where they had; something to do with old family ties. Returning to the area. It was clear that his dad didn’t care for the group in the way that he wrote about them, but had that caused his demise? Did they see him as whipping up trouble for them? According to his Uncle Vince, the recent crime spree in Green Acres itself was well and truly down to them – though there was little or no evidence to back that up.
‘I don’t trust ’em … worming their way in …’
‘No respect for boundaries.’
One thing was for sure, there’d be more strangers around these parts soon if property developer Neil Sheldon got his way. There was a document inside that folder talking about how the man was targeting specific parts of Green Acres to build luxury houses and apartments, aimed at people who had more money than sense. Mitch wasn’t sure what his father was trying to say here, if anything. Perhaps just the general distrust of outsiders again, or maybe that Sheldon was one of those people with a cult of personality? But he’d already decided to look into this, along with everything else he’d found on here, more closely.
Mitch had attempted to print some of the stuff off, but either his dad’s old printer had run out of ink or it was just plain knackered – not surprising given the amount of printouts scattered about the room. So he’d jotted the most relevant points down on a nearby notepad, then turned the thing off.
Searching around the study, he quickly found books pertaining to some of those topics; indeed, there were a handful on the pile he’d shifted from the chair. Mitch had gathered these up and taken them into the living room, the same as he’d done with those family albums the night before. That’s when he’d caved and fetched the brandy, figuring it would help him not only to forget the things he’d witnessed that day, but get through some of this dry research. Mitch wasn’t his father, didn’t enjoy looking into all this rubbish. He liked finding clues, following trails, but sifting through pages and pages of text about the Salem Trials or the Roswell Incident? It really didn’t float his boat. A necessary evil, he realized, if he was to figure out what had happened here.
As the night wore on, though, and the more he drank, the harder it was to stay awake. Mitch considered heading upstairs, but even in his drunken state he remembered that he hadn’t changed the sheets on his father’s bed.
A picture of that sheet in the morgue flashed into his mind at the very thought of it, being pulled back to reveal …
Charcoaled flesh: black, pink, and red.
He reached out for the bottle of brandy and poured himself another large one. Knocking that back proved to be the final straw, his eyelids giving way at last.
Pitching him once more into darkness.
***
Returning him to the dream, to the blackness there and, yes, the figures. The outlines, people gathered around. Not total darkness then? And, unlike the previous night, he could hear them talking – though he couldn’t understand a word of what they were saying. Muttering and mumbling, faces concealed: heads bowed, but also covered. Did they even have faces? Just blackness, more darkness.
Mitch was aware that he was shaking, terrified of what he was seeing. What it meant, though, he had absolutely no idea at this time – just that it was very, very bad. That it had something to do with what had happened to his father.
What had happened to him? What did Mitch even mean by that? In the dream it didn’t really matter; all that mattered was what was going on in the darkness, the flickering revealing more and more. Details he’d missed previously, like the gloved hands of these figures going about their business. In secret, in hiding. Something he shouldn’t really be spying on, in case he got caught. And what then? What would they do to him, if he saw?
Nothing good, that was for sure.
So, he should probably get out of there, right? Out of this space – wherever he was – and away. Run. Except they’d spotted him now, hadn’t they? Were all turning towards him and staring in his direction, their eyes glowing like the cat’s had. The cat? What about the cat? That had happened when he woke up, hadn’t it? And he was asleep now. Dreaming.
Hearing the mumbling, the chanting.
The noise as they moved, heading in his direction. Heading for him, reaching for him with those gloved hands. Figures, only they couldn’t be human because he couldn’t see their legs at all. How were they moving then? Floating? No, they wouldn’t be making that shuffling noise if they—
Scratching, like claws on wood. The cat. It was the bloody cat again, wasn’t it?
Mitch was frozen with fear, couldn’t even shiver. Locked inside his own body, unable to move. As they surrounded him, engulfing him. These … these things, whatever they were. Their voices, their strange words deafening him.
Until he couldn’t take it anymore. Not able to move, but about to scream maybe? Yes, his jaw was working at least, his mouth opening. Forming a word, a name. Shouted out loudly, a cry for help:
‘Bella!’
And suddenly he was—
***
Awake.
Almost falling off the sofa, scrambling to stay on it.
Darkness. Even though he’d left the lights on, everything was in darkness. Black. Mitch blinked once, twice. Objects flickering ahead of him: bookcases, fireplace—
Figures. People.
The people from the dream, the nightmare? No, these were here. They were real. In the house, in this room with him!
Now Mitch was scrambling to get off the sofa, to form words again: ‘Who …? What the hell are you …’ He was aware he was slurring, the effects of the brandy still apparent. The figures – were there two, three? It was hard to tell – were rushing at him. But this wasn’t like the nightmare, they weren’t floating, they had legs all right. They had heads, covered by caps this time.
What had he done with that poker? Where had he left it after the cat? In the kitchen? Fuck it!
Mitch took a swing at the closest figure, aiming for where he thought the jaw was. But it was a sloppy, clumsy affair, hitting nothing. His opponent, however, was far from inept. Mitch felt t
he punch to his side, in the ribs, and let out a howl. There wasn’t enough brandy in the world to drown out that kind of pain.
Next he was being shoved backwards by another set of hands, back onto the sofa where the momentum took Mitch and the furniture over. Pitching him on the ground near the front window, accompanied by the books he’d been going through. He thought he heard voices then, someone saying they should get out of there.
Mitch tried to rise, before they got away – what he could do about it was anyone’s guess – but everything felt too heavy again. Easier just to let go. Drop back down to the floor.
When his eyelids closed this time, there was darkness again. But he didn’t dream.
And for that he was grateful.
PART TWO
The most famous example of witchcraft in and around the region of Green Acres is the Apple Hill Coven – notable members included Madeleine Turner and Elizabeth Croft – who operated in the late sixteenth century. Responding to calls for help, witchfinders visited and rounded up the culprits to interrogate them and determine their guilt in the eyes of the Lord. The most common accusations levelled against the magick-users were ‘unsanctioned gatherings and worship’, ‘uncleanliness with men and devils’, ‘theft of sundry items from the village’, ‘harm to children’, ‘poisoning’, ‘flight and invisibility’, and various undisclosed ‘abilities’.
Though they always proclaimed their innocence, stating that the herbs they used to ‘cure’ were only for medicinal purposes, and nothing at all to do with the black arts, in time all the members of the coven were executed for their practices.
Chapter 11
‘A bit of a state.’
The words were slow and drawn out, as he’d come to expect from Sergeant Wilkinson. What he couldn’t tell, however, was whether the policeman was referring to the house or Mitch himself. It would have been applicable to both.
He’d been roused that morning by the cat, meowing loudly in his ear and licking his cheek. ‘Wha … what?’ Mitch had said, jerking and scaring the creature enough that it backed away from him for a moment. Then returned, nuzzling into him. ‘Urgh,’ he said then, feeling the pain everywhere. Feeling beaten, because let’s face it, he had been – in more ways than one. Feeling like he’d been struck in the ribs then pushed over a sofa; he was lucky it hadn’t tipped completely over and landed on him. That particular morning, a hangover was the least of his worries. Mitch looked over at the cat, the blurry bundle of fuzz gradually coming into focus. ‘Some protector you are,’ he managed.
When he felt able, he’d got to his knees, clutching his side. Then he’d used the windowsill to drag himself up, to get shakily to his feet, Cat meowing at him loudly. Probably wanted feeding or its litter changing. That would have to wait today.
Mitch had staggered to the door, taking in the books that had been thrown from the shelves in the living room, the tipped-over chairs. The missing TV. Then out into the hallway, his jacket on the floor, his wallet tossed there. Hadn’t been much in it apart from his cards. Heading to the kitchen, pausing to look inside the study – which was in even more disarray than usual. Papers and books everywhere, as if a tsunami had hit the room. The monitor was still there, but its screen was cracked. Of the tower there was no sign. Mitch let out a weary sigh.
It was the same story in the kitchen, food everywhere and the microwave missing. The back door was wide open, obviously the way they’d gained entrance. He poked his head out, relieved when he saw that his bike was still there and hadn’t been vandalized – that he could see. He didn’t have the heart to go upstairs and see what was missing from there. He probably wouldn’t know anyway, he’d hardly had time to catalogue anything in his time here. So he’d made his way back out to the hall to use the phone, only to discover they’d yanked the landline from the wall, ripping out the socket in the process.
His mobile, he’d call the cops on that! Except he couldn’t find the thing either when he returned to the living room. ‘Christ alive,’ he muttered, thinking absently it was a good job his aunty wasn’t here or she’d tell him off.
There was no choice but to open the front door and stagger round to his neighbour’s house to use their phone. Even then, he’d had to knock several times before they answered, through the letterbox initially. Though given what had just happened, Mitch was beginning to see why folk were so uptight around here lately.
‘What do you want?’ the disembodied voice had asked; like the cat, he couldn’t really tell whether it was a male or female. Mr Tattersall had lived in this house when Mitch had been next door, but he’d been knocking on for a hundred back then. People lived to a decent age around here, but that would make him some sort of superbeing if he was still around. Maybe a son or daughter?
‘Hi, my name’s Mitch Prescott,’ he’d told the person, bending – though it hurt like a son of a bitch. He explained the situation, what had happened, and said that even if the neighbour wasn’t prepared to open the door could they please ring for Sergeant Wilkinson to come. The letterbox had snapped shut without even a goodbye, so Mitch had no way of knowing if his request had been granted. Not until he heard the police car eventually coming, that was – sirens on, as if it was some kind of emergency. Wilkinson was a few hours late for that.
That’s when the police officer had entered, looking around and tutting. He checked out the living room, face souring when he saw the half-empty bottle of brandy. That’s when he’d uttered those drawn-out words, ‘A bit of a state, aye.’
‘That’s one way of putting it,’ Mitch said to him. ‘Any chance of getting some forensics people out here or whatever, dusting for some prints?’
Wilkinson gaped at him like he was speaking Chinese. And instead of replying, he wandered through to the kitchen, peeking into the study briefly and tutting again. Mitch trailed behind him, as the man nodded at the back door. ‘That’s how they got in.’
Yeah, thanks, Columbo, he thought. I’d figured that much out myself.
Then the man was examining the lock. ‘You left it open.’
That Mitch hadn’t realized. ‘What? No. I locked it up, I’m sure of it.’ But was he? Had he locked up after sorting out the litter? He couldn’t remember now, and the hangover, the pain, wasn’t helping with his memory. The cat had been distracting him again, so maybe … The cat. There was no sign of it now. Was it upstairs or had it gone off in search of food elsewhere? Would it even come back?
The man with the white beard was pointing at the lock, which was indeed undamaged. Damn! Even if his dad had insurance – and Mitch didn’t know whether that had been renewed or not – his carelessness would probably bollocks everything. Good luck making a claim when you’d basically left out the red carpet for the burglars.
Though the more he thought about it, the more he’d been thinking about things in the time it had taken Wilkinson to get there – hell, in the time it took the guy to say his first sentence – the more he was growing suspicious about the reasons for this ‘break-in’. Yeah, sure, things had gone missing. The TV, microwave – though how much they’d get for those was questionable: about three groats? – and of course he hadn’t checked upstairs (had any of his mum’s old jewellery gone? He really hoped not, because it was his negligence that was to blame), but the mess that they’d caused … Organized chaos? The stolen tower with those files on he’d been looking at last night. Maybe he was just reading too much into it all, perhaps they’d simply been trying doors and he was the only one who’d been stupid enough to leave his bloody back one open for them to get in! He still couldn’t believe he’d done that. Holy shit!
‘Is there any CCTV coverage in this part of the village?’ Mitch asked then, clutching at straws. Sergeant Wilkinson continued to gape at him. ‘Don’t worry about it.’ They’d got in through the back anyway, he doubted there’d be any cameras covering that area.
‘Mitch? Mitch, sweetheart, are you there?’ Definitely a female voice this time, one he recognized immediately.
‘In here,’ Mitch called through to his Aunty Helen, berating himself for leaving the front door wide open this time, not that there was much left to take at this point in time. Then she was in the room, Uncle Vince trailing behind; the jungle grapevine was on top form today, it seemed. ‘Oh my,’ said the woman, having seen the devastation on the way in, and now inside the kitchen. She went over to Mitch, giving him another one of her famous hugs, only standing back when he winced.
‘You’re hurt, love,’ said Helen.
‘They got in a lucky punch to the ribs,’ he told them.
‘Show me,’ the woman said. It wasn’t a request.
‘In a moment.’
‘Now,’ she ordered, practically pulling his shirt up to see what the damage was. At the same time, Wilkinson was making noises about leaving them to it.
‘Is that it? You’re not going to do anything else?’ asked Mitch.
The old sergeant looked at him again, then he returned to the back door and held up a finger for them to watch. Next, he shut the door and locked it. He nodded, as if to say, ‘That should do the trick!’
The copper really did leave then, with another nod. ‘Thanks,’ said Mitch, waiting for him to be out of the room fully before adding, ‘for nothing.’ Then he started giggling. ‘That tickles!’
‘Sorry dear,’ said his aunty. ‘But it doesn’t feel like any of those ribs are broken.’
‘Always a good thing.’
‘What happened?’ asked his uncle.
‘I woke up in the middle of the night. I’d nodded off on the couch doing a bit of research and—’
‘Research?’ asked Vince.
‘Oh, just looking into some of the stuff Dad was working on before he was … Before he died.’ The pair in front of him exchanged glances then, but said nothing, so Mitch continued, ‘Actually, the noise they were making woke me and, well, we got into a bit of a scuffle.’
Helen sniffed the air. ‘Had you been drinking, Mitchel?’ Not Mitch now, but his full name. He didn’t see what that had got to do with it, but said he’d had a brandy or two.