by Mark Stay
‘You’re sure?’
‘As sure as I can be about something like this, which is to say not very,’ he said, then added unhelpfully, ‘but yes.’
‘You’ve been here all morning? Before I got here?’
‘Up at first light,’ he told her. ‘My one day off and I try to make the most of it, what with the radishes coming through and all.’
‘So, no one took it this morning,’ Mrs Teach mused. She thought back to last night’s séance. Kefapepo’s promise to find a form for Ernie, to bring him back in a host of some kind. Had the door been open long enough for someone like Kefapepo to come through and make good on his threats?
‘Mrs Teach?’ Mr Loaf’s voice broke through her thoughts. ‘Are you okay, my dear? You look quite lost.’
It was nonsense. A demon from the lower orders wouldn’t have the kind of power to cross over. Nothing had happened like that in over three hundred years. It was unthinkable.
‘Mrs Teach?’
‘Hmm? My apologies, Mr Loaf. This has quite rattled me and my tea’s gone cold.’ She poured the tea on the soil and screwed the cup back onto the Thermos flask. ‘Back to work, I suppose.’ She bent at the knees to scoop up her watering can and headed for the communal water butt at the centre of the plots.
Mr Loaf watched her go, his thinning wisps of hair tousled by the breeze. ‘I’ll be sure to let you know if I hear anything,’ he called after her. ‘After all, there can’t be that many scarecrows in top hat and tails with a socking great pumpkin for a head!’
5
Mrs Teach quietly sipped her gin while the others in the Green Man tried to make sense of what they had just seen. A gaggle of scarecrows led by a tall man with a pumpkin for a head just strolled into the village like a bunch of troubadours and given everyone the willies. They were already calling him Pumpkinhead, but she knew that wasn’t his real name. Mrs Teach recognised the scarecrow immediately. It was the one she had thought stolen from Ernie’s allotment.
It hadn’t been stolen. It had come to life and walked away of its own volition, and all because of her stupid séance.
Kefapepo was here. A demon walking the Earth to create havoc. She recalled the stories that Charlotte had told her of him. Centuries ago, he would appear every year from Easter to Lammas, going from farm to farm in the form of a scarecrow, burning crops, killing sheep and cattle. He was on his own back then, easily scared off, little more than a pest, but now he had a small army of scarecrows that he had somehow drawn to him.
Worst of all, he was more ambitious this time. This wasn’t about scaring farmers or killing livestock. He was making threats.
The gin was working. Slowly washing her worries away, stopping her thinking about what was to come. The consequences. This definitely had some whopping consequences. She couldn’t bear the thought of letting Charlotte know what had really happened. She would flip her lid, and Mrs Teach could really do without that now.
Kefapepo wanted Craddock. If he got what he wanted, then maybe he would go away. Yes. That would end it.
Mrs Teach took another sip of her gin. Someone was waffling on about Craddock now. Faye called him, ‘Poor Mr Craddock.’ Mrs Teach would have to set her straight about that.
6
Last night, Ernie had returned.
Already it was a tilting, swirling memory for Mrs Teach. He had come as a scarecrow, wearing his old jumper and dungarees. His face was a saggy sack cloth. He had buttons for eyes and straw for hair, and she was so terrified at first that she took him for an intruder and walloped him with a poker.
It was only after he fled that she began to realise that Kefapepo had delivered on his twisted promise to bring Ernie back. But this couldn’t be Ernie, could it? This sad creature, writhing in the grip of Terrence, Bertie and the other Local Defence Volunteers as it was dragged back down the street.
And then it called Philomena by her name and her heart sank inside her.
She finally had her wish. Ernie had returned, or some sad echo of him that was trapped in a body of straw and dust. He was confused, terrified, and he needed someone to help him. Philomena was the only one here who could ease his pain.
She took command at that point. Faye wanted to call a bobby, but this was Mrs Teach’s husband and she had to take care of this herself. She gently cradled the creature, and it took her hand.
Mrs Teach leaned close to where its ear would be, and she whispered three questions.
‘Do you forgive me?’ She held him tighter, the straw in its body creaking. ‘I’m so sorry I hit you. I didn’t know it was you. I was scared. Please forgive me.’
It gently squeezed her hand.
‘Pumpkinhead. Bernie the scarecrow. Was he the one who brought you back?’
It squeezed tighter.
‘I’m sorry, my love. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault,’ she told him, then asked one final question. ‘Do you want this to end?’
A last squeeze.
‘Try and rest, my love,’ she said. ‘I don’t think this will hurt. Just try and rest, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine, I’ll be fine.’
She gave him a long embrace and laid him on the stone steps of the Great War memorial. She pulled his shirt open, buttons popping on the steps and cobbles, and wedged her hand deep inside his chest.
He’s just straw. Nothing but straw.
She took him to pieces, one fistful after another, tossing straw behind her like a child unwrapping a Christmas gift.
It’s just straw. Only straw.
He lay there like a ragdoll, his button eyes staring. She yanked off his sack cloth head revealing tightly bound straw, and she pulled that apart, too. Before long, there was nothing left but baggy clothes and corn stalks.
Mrs Teach was aware that Faye and the Local Defence Volunteers were looking on in horror. She would have to take care of that. The men wouldn’t be a problem – Mrs Teach could befuddle their minds easily enough – but Faye… There was something about Faye. Perhaps she had her mother’s gift after all? There was no fooling that girl. This would take some delicate explanation.
Mrs Teach was about to speak, but instead could only give a little sob. More threatened to burst out, so she pushed them back down. There would be time for tears later.
7
Mrs Teach didn’t go to church on Sunday. She needed time to think. She had promised to meet with Faye on Monday, and she had this half-barmy idea to tell the girl the truth. Why fanny about with lies? The girl wasn’t as clever as she thought she was, but she wasn’t as daft as half the village either, and Mrs Teach was convinced the girl had more than a little magic inside her. She would tell Faye the truth about the séance if she could get the girl to promise not to say a word to Charlotte. That one need never know.
Oh, who was she kidding? Charlotte probably already knew – she had already interrogated Mrs Teach once – and was no doubt looking for someone to blame. A wicked part of Mrs Teach’s mind wondered if she could pin everything on Faye. For all anyone knew, the girl had already started dabbling with magic and opened the door herself. Perhaps Kefapepo’s manifestation at Mrs Teach’s séance was a result of the girl’s unwitting spell casting? Why else would she have gone to see Charlotte the other morning?
This wicked urge subsided in Mrs Teach. She had no one to blame but herself. She would make peace with Charlotte – yes, the other woman would be cross, but she’s always cross – and then they would face this demon together.
Perhaps. Mrs Teach had to clear her mind. She would pick more flowers and go to visit Ernie’s stone and say a few words.
By the time she left the house that morning, Mrs Teach’s mind had sorted her worries into manageable solutions. Yes, a demon had broken through, yes, it had the potential to do great harm, and yes, it was most likely the result of forbidden magic by either herself or possibly Faye Bright, though Mrs Teach doubted that, but that’s where it stopped. Two witches could see off a demon. It would be hard, but it could be done, surely. They woul
dn’t involve the girl. Not yet. She’s not ready. Get this mess sorted, and then they could train Faye properly. There’s nothing worse than an untrained witch for creating havoc. They would show the girl how to do witching properly. Like the old days, handed down from one generation to another.
Thank God she doesn’t have her mother’s book, Mrs Teach thought as she locked her door. Then we’d really be in trouble.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
If you have enjoyed this book, and would like to be kept up-to-date with the latest village gossip, get free and exclusive short stories, and receive Miss Burgess’ recipe for jam roly-poly, join the Woodville Village Parish Council newsletter here: witchesofwoodville.com
On behalf of the Woodville Village Parish Council, Mr Mark Stay (secretary) would like to thank the following for their contributions…
Anne Perry for helping young Faye find her voice and for assisting Mr Stay with his chronicles. We wish Anne all the best in her new venture and she is welcome to return to the village at any time.
Bethan Jones for shepherding the book through the final stages of the edit and production, and we look forward to working with Bethan on future chronicles.
Lisa Rogers for pointing out some two thousand or so minor errors in the text without tearing her hair out. We also thank her for her expertise on sherbet lemons.
Matthew Johnson for his design skills and Harry Goldhawk for his splendid artwork.
All the fine folk at Simon & Schuster for their diligence and determination in these trying times.
Hélène Butler and the gang at Johnson & Alcock for spreading the good word, far and wide.
Claire Burgess for her thorough explanation of bell-ringing and its hypnotic effects.
Julian Barr, Rhoda Baxter, Lorna Cook, Sage Gordon-Davis, Ian W Sainsbury and Robyn Sarty for reading early versions of the text and offering copious and most helpful notes for improvement.
Paddy Eason for loaning out Ginny Albion for the day.
Steve Mayhew for identifying the John Wayne movie where he breathes through a hollow reed (Sagebrush Trail, film fans).
Matt Dench for suggesting the appropriate historical setting.
Sue Strachan, Christopher Johnson, Anstey Harris and Busters Bits for nuggets of historical wisdom regarding pubs and toilets.
And last, but by no means least, Mr Ed Wilson for his splendid negotiation skills and good taste. Thank you also, Mr Wilson, for the offer of the trousers for the church bring-and-buy sale, but we regret that the colours were considered to be a little outré by Reverend Jacobs. He did, however, suggest offering them to the Local Defence Volunteers who could perhaps cut them up and use them for semaphore practice.
A note on food rationing
Food rationing in June 1940 only extended to bacon and ham (4oz per week), sugar (12oz) and butter (4oz).
Further meat rationing began in July 1940, and cooking fat, meat, tea, cheese and jam wouldn’t be rationed until much later. (Source: The British Home Front 1939-40 by Martin J Brayley, Osprey Publishing).
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mark Stay got a part-time Christmas job at Waterstone’s in the nineties (back when it still had an apostrophe) and somehow ended up working in publishing for over 25 years. He would write in his spare time and (he can admit this now) on company time, and sometimes those writings would get turned into books and films. Mark is also co-presenter of the Bestseller Experiment podcast, which has inspired writers all over the world to finish and publish their books. Born in London, he lives in Kent with Youtube gardener Claire Burgess and a declining assortment of retired chickens.
@markstay
markstaywrites.com
www.SimonandSchuster.co.uk/Authors/Mark-Stay
Also by Mark Stay
Robot Overlords
Back to Reality (with Mark Oliver)
The End of Magic
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First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2021
Copyright © Unusually Tall Stories, Ltd 2021
The right of Mark Stay to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-4711-9797-0
eBook ISBN: 978-1-4711-9798-7
Audio ISBN: 978-1-3985-0169-0
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.