13 Hauntings

by Clarice Black

  “Love what you’ve done with the place.”

  Mrs. Fitts was lounging on a lawn chair, her bejewelled fingers sparkling in the lights. Sarah smiled automatically, wondering who had invited the neighbourhood busybody. She decided to ignore her unless she found the nosy woman in her linen cupboard again.

  “May I help?” It was Matthew, taking the tray from Sarah’s hands. “Please, let me.”

  Sarah didn’t mind. She couldn’t help being amused at how hard the poor boy was trying to impress Daphne. Ever since that night in August, Matthew had been a regular fixture around the house. He claimed he stopped by just to make sure nothing paranormal ever occurred again, but Sarah knew better. He was besotted with her eldest daughter, no doubt about it.

  Father Hughes sat in a lawn chair near one of the gas heaters they had set up around the garden. His lap was covered by a thick shawl; he had looked old before but now he looked frail. They had never told the details of that horrible night, but Sarah had a feeling it had taken its toll on Father Hughes.

  “Doing alright?” she asked him.

  “Excellent.” Father Hughes grinned. “I haven’t had such delicious food in years. Now you mustn’t think I’m disparaging my cook. He makes perfectly respectable food, for perfectly respectable priests. But a man needs a bit of spice once in a while even if he is a man of the cloth.”

  “I completely understand. Shall I bring you some more eggnog?”

  “I had my eyes on the cookies, to be honest.”

  Sarah laughed.

  “I’ll send some over.”

  The night progressed. There was music and dancing, and more food. Eventually the party came to an end. Andrew and Sarah saw the guests out.

  “It was a wonderful party, my dear.” Andrew kissed Sarah’s forehead.

  “And the tree was lovely. You were right, Andrew.”

  “Yes!” Andrew pumped his fist. “I’ve never been right before! This is a miraculous Christmas.”

  Sarah stared at him, one eyebrow raised.

  “I’ll put the girls to bed, shall I?” Andrew said sweetly, and darted out of the hall.

  Sarah walked to the kitchen then stopped dead. The back garden looked like a vast wonderland after all the guests had left. Under the tree, on the bench Daphne had installed there, sat the girl herself, and the lanky form of Matthew. He had Daphne’s hands in his own large ones, and was saying something.

  Sarah averted her gaze. It was a private moment for her first born, and she would not intrude. There was a pile of dishes in the sink anyway. Grateful for getting her life back, Sarah put on a pair of gloves and got scrubbing.

  ~*~

  Daphne waved Matthew goodbye. He had just informed her that he had transferred from his university to hers. Daphne had had to let him down gently. She was grateful for his part in ridding the house of ghosts, but she only viewed him as a friend. Matthew had just smiled in that annoying way of his, confirming Daphne’s suspicion that the word ‘no’ just didn’t register with him.

  Rubbing the back of her neck, Daphne closed the front door, then locked it. She rested her back on the solid surface, looking at the house from that angle. The house was dark, only the upstairs hall light burning. Daphne walked around in the gloom, her fingertips touching various surfaces as she passed.

  Nothing.

  She heard nothing. She felt nothing. The house was just a house again; no murderous ghosts plaguing its interior, whatsoever. Yet Daphne had developed a habit; she locked up every night and walked through the house just to make sure. She didn’t think she’d ever dismiss the nature of ghosts again, and just how far they could go to persist in some form of existence.

  Done with the ground floor, Daphne climbed the stairs, her hands trailing the banister. She stood still at the top of the stairs, emptying her mind of all thought, listening to the noises around her. She heard Andrew’s droning voice from her parent’s bedroom, a rustle of pages from Poppy’s. Amber’s bedroom was dark, which meant she was sleeping, but she heard whispers from Katie’s room.

  Her hair stood on end. Daphne walked closer, on silent feet.

  Since the night of 26th August Daphne hadn’t felt any paranormal stirrings. She had made her surveillance a ritual, to be sure. She had even installed the iron bench underneath the cherry tree as a testament to the memory of the children who had died there. There was a plaque and everything, reclaiming the memory of the children needlessly murdered on the property.

  Was it possible that some of the children had returned?

  Even though the ghost children had been curious, playful spirits who had saved Daphne from her death in the final moments of the battle against the Paignton ghosts, Daphne didn’t think she’d be too comfortable having them around.

  Heart beating in her throat, her breath coming in small harsh intakes Daphne pushed Katie’s bedroom door open. The room was dark but for the small wedge of light Daphne had let in. The floor was strewn with toys, as usual. Daphne could see where Andrew had tried to hastily clean up, but given up soon after.

  The voices had stopped as soon as Daphne turned the doorknob. Daphne turned on the lights.

  Katie was sitting up in bed, her covers up to her mouth. She squinted at the sudden light, her green eyes as big as saucers. There was no one else in the room.

  “Who were you talking to, Katie?” Daphne asked, stepping into the room. Was it just her imagination or did the room feel colder than the rest of the house? Frost was laced on the window. Snow had started falling, silently covering the world in its cloaking whiteness.

  Katie squirmed in her bed. She wouldn’t look at Daphne. This was odd behaviour, one that alarmed Daphne more than anything else had.

  “I wasn’t talking to anybody.”

  Katie pulled up her knees, her tiny hands resting on her ankles. Daphne could see her fingernails were dirty with chocolate, and crumbs were still around her mouth. Katie looked green, and frail as if something had been draining the energy out of her.

  “Don’t lie to me, Katie. Who were you talking to?”

  Tears bloomed in Katie’s eyes. Her lips quivered, and she looked petulant.

  “Promise you won’t be mad?”

  Dread was creeping into Daphne’s bones. What had Katie done? Who was she hiding? Daphne thought back to the horror and confusion of their first few months in the house. She couldn’t allow things to get back to that, she would never let it happen again. And here her sister had hidden something important from her. Had she kept the link to one of the spirits open?

  “I won’t be mad, Katie. But you have to tell me.”

  Katie lifted a shaking hand and pointed to her closet. It was painted white, with pink and purple butterflies. The wardrobe door was ajar, a wedge of complete darkness; sucking in the light and letting nothing out.

  Daphne stepped towards it but, as if the thing within had heard their conversation, the door swung open slowly. Encased within the dark was a slight figure, standing in the gloom. Daphne couldn’t make out the face, but her breath caught in her lungs, solidified into a mass that was choking her.

  The figure stepped forward, hair disheveled, scrawny arms and legs shaking.

  Amber stepped into the light. Daphne let out the breath she had been holding, her hands on her chest.

  “Katie!” she admonished. “Shit! You gave me a heart attack! I thought –“

  Katie had begun to cry, as had Amber. Daphne was at a loss as to what had happened. Then she saw the plate of cookies hastily stuffed beneath the duvet and it dawned on her. Andrew must have put them to bed, but one of them must have snuck downstairs and grabbed some more cookies, sweets they weren’t allowed.

  Not only were they out of bed after bedtime, they were gorging on illicit cookies.

  No wonder they were hysterical with fear.

  “Please don’t tell Mummy!”

  Daphne shushed them, wiping their tears.

  “I won’t tell Mum or Dad,” she promised. “But you have to get in bed
right now Amber, and you as well, Katie.”

  Amber nodded vigorously and scampered from the room. Daphne collected the plate of cookies, and heard Amber’s door closing softly down the hall.

  “Katie?” Daphne asked nonchalantly. “Have you ever seen the children again? You know, the ones who used to visit you at night.”

  Katie rubbed her tired eyes, and yawned.

  “No.” She finally said, sinking lower on her pillow. “I miss them sometimes, but I’ve never seen them again. They were nice.”

  “I know they were.” Daphne smiled. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind Katie’s ear. She stood there till Katie was breathing steadily in sleep. Once she was sure Katie was asleep Daphne shut the lights and closed her bedroom door.

  “Ghost hunting?”

  Poppy was standing in the hall, her pink flannel pajamas clashing horribly with her red hair. She had a toothbrush in her hand, and a fleck of white toothpaste still clinging to her chin where she hadn’t cleaned it properly.

  “More like cookie hunting.” Daphne laughed. “I just caught Amber and Katie hogging on the last of the cookies.”

  “Those brats.” Poppy wasn’t laughing.

  “You want one?”

  “I just brushed.” Poppy frowned.

  Daphne held the plate out. Poppy considered the cookies, turned away, reconsidered and grabbed two.

  “Merry Christmas, Poppy.”

  “It isn’t for another five days.” Poppy snapped. “Merry Christmas,” she muttered before shutting her door with a snap.

  Daphne smiled, bit into a cookie, and sauntered to her own room. There were many changes in here. The pedestal fan had been relegated to the closet for the winter. There were more books on the desk, and many more pictures on the corkboard. Daphne sat on a chair beside her window, not wanting to get crumbs in her bed. She looked out at the lighted cherry tree, her feet tucked up close to her.

  This was what she had always thought home would be like. And finally, after some risky business, it was.

  ~*~ THE END ~*~

  The Haunting of Hallow Church

  Clarice Black

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  Prologue

  It all began with the burning of the Lollards. While the rest of the world was busy rounding up witches and burning them at the stake, Englishmen, particularly the townsfolk of Castle Combe, Wiltshire took it upon themselves to round up the Lollards and burn them at the stake. This was back in the sixteenth century, under the rule of Queen Mary the First of England.

  It made sense to burn the Lollards just like it made sense to prosecute the witches. Roman Catholicism was under fire by both. While the witches believed in pleasing their lord Lucifer by performing unspeakable rituals, the Lollards were up to something that the Queen, the Archbishops and the Pope deemed unholier than the witchcraft itself. They were desecrating the principles of Christianity as they knew it back then. More importantly, they were attacking the power, the pomp and prestige of Catholicism. “This is no way to live your life as a God-fearing Christian. Jesus Christ lived in poverty, he did! Not in chambers elegant with spruce and splendor!” This was the motto John Wycliffe, the leader of the Lollards, had been thumping in the face of all the clergy. And naturally, the clergy could not have that. The Queen declared, albeit in a covert manner, that all Lollards be crucified (if they want to imitate Christ that badly, let them die the same way, she said) and burned till their death. Barbaric though it was, this motion started getting implemented without a moment’s hesitation.

  The villagers of Castle Combe dragged their neighbours, kinsfolk and relatives to a clearing in the woods where crucifixes had been fixed. Defiant they had been, the Lollards at first, but when they were sprayed with kerosene and lit up, their yells tore the veil of the night’s silence, seeking pardon. But the townsfolk revelled in watching them burn. These burnings continued for a month, until there were no more Lollards to burn.

  That clearing in the woods was forgotten for some time; the crosses with the decayed, burnt up corpses of Wycliffite followers served as food for craven crows and vicious vultures for some time, until only the blood-stained crucifixes remained erect, like an ode to the dead, like gravestones with no bodies underneath. This place was in the midst of dense forestry. Other than the bloodcurdling events that had transpired here, it was a place of utter and uninhibited pristineness. A shallow stream flowed from one end to the other, disappearing into the thicket of trees. Untouched by men and their malicious malcontent for turning wood into houses and land into industry, this unkempt patch of nature thrived, with the crosses as the sole sign of humanly intervention.

  Until the advent of the seventeenth century.

  It was as if heathenism was infiltrating England in newer and newer ways. First it was witches, then it was the Lollards, sometime in the future it would be the Spanish, and then the Mongols. But at the beginning of the seventeenth century, Satanism found its roots throughout the country and, unlike the witches and Lollards, they had learnt their lesson. If they were to practice their cult, they had to do it covertly. Naturally, to the Satanist chapter of Wiltshire, the unkempt, forlorn clearing in the woods struck as a most opportunistic place to carry out their practices. And so it began. The cult would gather every Sunday night and perform vile practices. The villagers of Castle Combe would hear laughter emanating from the clearing. They would see lights coming from the forest, but they would keep quiet about it. There was something unnerving about the activities. It was as if the rituals performed in the name of Lucifer had borne fruit of a most demonic nature. The place began emancipating ungodliness; dark energy had taken a hold of it; animals strayed away from it; birds began to flock away from the trees that formed the circumference of the clearing and villagers began to stay away from it during their travels. They knew deep in their hearts that this was no Lollardy, nor was it something curable, as witchcraft was. This was a cult deeper and more powerful, with its roots secretly embedded in the constitution of the country’s elite class, such as the noblemen of the government and even some members of the royal family.

  In 1638, a nobleman by the name of Anthony Haskett was caught in that very clearing. And by none other by his own chaperone! The chaperone followed his master, against strict orders, to deliver Haskett’s cloak to him. But what he saw Haskett doing in the clearing horrified him. Anthony and a group of other men, dressed in black robes and wearing ram’s heads atop their own, were gathered in a circle, with a red light glowing on the floor of the clearing in the shape of the devil’s pentagram and in the midst of this incensed light, there was a child. The child was no more than a few months’ old and it was naked. It cried, squealed and flailed its arms helplessly on the cold grassy ground while Anthony (the chaperone recognized him by his characteristic limping) proceeded towards the child with a dagger in his hand. He then bent over the child while reciting incantations that made no sense to the chaperone hiding in the thicket of trees, and then slit the screaming child’s throat. The rest of the cult-members standing around hurried towards the bleeding child and filled their goblets with its blood.

  Before he could witness anymore of this atrocity, the chaperone ran back to the horse carriage he had parked on the road that led to Castle Combe and sped off towards the town. He broke the news to the town police and the parish of the church.

  The next day, the parish and the police showed up at Anthony’s house and arrested him on counts of practicing Satanism and the murder of an innocent child. They took him to Castle Combe, which was not far from Anthony’s manor, and beheaded him in the midst of an angry crowd.

  A few days later when the townsfolk went to clean up the site, which had now been abandoned by the cultists because it was compromised, they discovered a most horrible atrocity. Upon digging the ground where the pentagram used to be, they saw bodies upon bodies of infants brutally molested and buried inside the ground. The parish asked the diggers to cover the ground again and leave the children where they were. It w
as too late to do anything about it.

  And after that discovery, the lot in the forest became neglected and forgotten. Castle Combe was starting to develop and the city’s outskirts expanded in all directions. No one would buy that piece of land though. The parish had an idea. He proposed to the folk that they build a church in that place.

  “But we’ve already got two churches here!” one of the villagers objected during a committee meeting.

  “But that’s not the point of it. None are willing to buy that land. But even that is not the point. Everyone here knows that the place has been used as a podium for evil. First the Lollards and then the devil-worshippers!” the parish said. “It’s only befitting that the evil of that land be compensated by holiness. We shall form a church there in the name of our Lord! And the hallowed name of our Father will mitigate all evil from there!”

  The villagers loved this idea. Construction for the church began almost immediately, and within the next few weeks the church was built on the ground where once godless heathens had thrived. The parish saw it fit to name it ‘Hallow Church.’ All this happened around 1645. Better days were in store for the town, or so the people thought. A paved road was constructed all the way from Castle Combe through the wilderness to the Church and people were encouraged to visit it for mass on Sundays.

  The priests and the nuns at the Hallow Church tried their best to make the place as hospitable and familial as they could. But despite the Romanesque beauty of the building and the pleasantness that the members of the church tried to inculcate, there remained a shadow of the past dominant in there and it began to exhibit itself in petrifying ways.