Ghosts of Yorkshire

by Karen Perkins

  ‘John, wake up, you’re having a nightmare.’ Sue shook her husband awake.

  ‘Wha—? Huh? Oh, thank God.’

  ‘You were thrashing around like anything – what were you dreaming about?’

  John sat up and ran his hands over his face and through his hair. ‘God, it was awful. I dreamed of that witch, Jennet. She burned the twins. God.’ He shuddered. ‘I’m never going to get that image out of my mind. And the smell. Christ!’

  ‘Smell? In a dream?’

  John shrugged. ‘It was a vivid one. Too vivid. What time is it, anyway?’

  ‘Bloody hell, seven o’clock, the twins have slept through!’

  ‘Hallelujah. Well, that’s something.’

  ‘I’ll go check on them,’ Sue said, getting out of bed and shrugging on her robe. ‘God, a full night’s sleep, I feel like a new woman.’

  John didn’t reply, his head was in his hands again.

  ‘John! John! Oh God, no!’

  He jumped out of bed and ran into the twins’ room. Sue held Jayne in her arms, tears pouring down her face. ‘They’re – they’re cold, John, they’re cold. Ring 999.’

  Disbelieving, John ran to the crib and picked Robert up. His little body was stiff. Sobbing, John looked at his wife and struggled to get his words out. ‘Ma was right. It’s Jennet. She’s back.’

  14th August 1966 – 4:00 p.m.

  ‘We have to protect Richie,’ Old Ma Ramsgill insisted. ‘Send him away, far enough away that he’s out of reach.’

  ‘Not now, Ma, please. It’s the twins’ wake. Let us say goodbye to them properly.’

  ‘There’s no time, thee fool,’ Ma shouted, bringing a silence down on the Stonehouse. She took a deep breath. ‘Jennet won’t respect our grief. She’ll come for thee or Richie next, John. Thee’s the only ones with Ramsgill blood.’

  ‘Oh not your bloody ghost again, Ma,’ Tom Grange said, then laughed.

  ‘Still thy tongue, boy.’ Wilf jumped to Ma’s defence. ‘You know better than to speak to thy elders like that. And thee’d do well to heed Ma’s words. All of thee would,’ he added, his voice rising.

  Ma took over. ‘The whole valley’s in trouble, not just Ramsgills – she cursed us all, don’t forget. All of thy ancestors played a part in her story. I know it sounds like a fairy story to thee young ’uns, but this is real. This is Yorkshire, it’s full of bloody ghosts and this one’s a devil.’

  Someone sniggered.

  ‘Sarah Wainwright, I might have guessed. Thy ma were just as flighty as thee is.’

  ‘Don’t you talk about my ma, she ain’t well.’

  ‘Aye, soft in the head, and thee knows why? She saw Jennet the last time she woke, when she took my Jack. Ask her, go on, ask her. Helped me put Jennet back to rest she did and it broke her.’

  Sarah was in tears. ‘You evil old . . . cow,’ she spat at Ma. ‘You know nothing about my ma, nothing!’

  ‘I’ve known her all her life, stupid girl. Know her better than thee does, I’ll bet.’

  Sarah screamed and dropped her glass, then pointed at the door.

  ‘What? What is it, lass?’

  ‘A-a-a woman . . .’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The doorway. Can’t you see her? Can’t anyone see her? She’s laughing at us!’ Sarah’s voice rose in hysteria.

  ‘Buggeration,’ Old Ma Ramsgill said and put herself between the door and the frightened girl. ‘Get gone, Jennet Scot. Thee’s done enough, leave us be.’

  Everyone heard the laugh, then silence reigned once again. Sue nudged John and showed him her arm – raised in goosebumps. ‘It’s freezing in here.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Anyone else think I’m an evil old cow? No? Just as well. Get thyselves home, hang rosemary at thy doors and windows and sprinkle salt at every entrance. Oh, and pray to whatever god thee believes in – we’re going to need them all.’

  15th August 1966 – 6:00 a.m.

  John opened his front door only to be pushed aside by Old Ma Ramsgill.

  ‘Sarah Wainwright’s dead. They’re saying she was mauled by a dog. It weren’t a dog, it were Jennet.’

  ‘Wha—? Ma, no, tell me you’re joking.’

  ‘Why the bloody hell would I joke about summat like that? Damn fool boy.’

  ‘But-but how do you know it’s Jennet?’

  ‘She used to appear as a barguest – an evil spirit disguised as an animal. Jennet’s a black dog. She’s up to her old tricks, and it don’t look like she’s happy to restrict herself just to our family. Get dressed, get Sue and Richie, and get thyselves to Gate House. We need to stop her.’

  ‘How? How the bloody hell can we stop a two-hundred-year-old witch?’ Sue asked from the doorway. ‘From what you said last night at the wake, you’ve already tried once, yet she’s back.’

  ‘Aye. But we kept her spirit bound to her bones for near on thirty year. She’d still be sleeping if not for that bloody dam.’

  ‘So we can do it again?’

  Old Ma Ramsgill said nothing.

  ‘Ma?’ John prompted. ‘Can we do it again?’

  Ma took a deep breath, then heaved a great sigh. ‘No. They’ll be taking the bloody bones, if they haven’t done already. They’re no good to us now.’

  ‘So what are we going to do?’

  For the first time in many years, Old Ma Ramsgill looked her age. ‘I don’t know, Son. But we’d better damn well come up with something quick or this is only the start.’

  7:00 a.m.

  ‘This is my journal. The one I started last time,’ Ma said. ‘Thee read it out, John, my eyes ain’t what they were. Then we’ll go through the others, see what else our ancestors did.’ She passed the journal to her son and a piece of paper slipped out. The family tree.

  Sue picked it up and opened it out. ‘All the twins,’ she said. ‘They all died together.’ She passed the diagram to John and they studied it, their tears mingling amidst the names of John’s ancestors, smudging the ink.

  ‘Take care of that,’ Old Ma Ramsgill snapped. ‘Richie may need it one day – or his kids.’

  ‘Not if we stop her,’ John said, the emotion making his words crack, but the purpose and intent in his voice was still clear.

  ‘Ramsgills have been trying to do that for two centuries, John. Yet still she’s here. We’ll do everything we can, but it may not be enough. When I’m gone, thee’ll have to prepare Richie. Make sure he believes it.’

  They sat with their own thoughts for a while as the implications of failure sank in, only the radio breaking the silence.

  ‘Today’s headlines. Two people died last night after being mauled by dogs. Adam Carter from Harrogate and Sarah Wainwright from Thruscross.’

  All three Ramsgills listened in growing horror.

  ‘Who’s Adam Carter?’ John asked.

  ‘Shh,’ Ma said. ‘Listen.’

  ‘Witnesses to both attacks describe the same vicious dog, despite the attacks being fifteen miles apart.

  ‘A spokesperson for the North Yorkshire Police has urged local residents to be vigilant and report any sightings of a large unaccompanied black dog to them. Under no circumstances should the animal be approached.

  ‘In other news . . .’

  ‘Who’s Adam Carter?’ John asked again. ‘What does he have to do with this?’

  ‘Give me that family tree,’ Ma snapped. ‘Yes, look – at Jennet’s time, Richard Ramsgill was married to Elizabeth Cartwright. It’s my bet he’s a descendant of that family.’

  ‘Harrogate,’ Sue said. ‘He was killed in Harrogate, not Thruscross. I thought you said she only killed here.’

  Ma stared at the journals. ‘She’s only killed here before. But then her bones were undisturbed. Either she’s so angry at her grave being dug up that it’s given her the energy to travel further, or her bones are in Harrogate.’

  ‘No, they’ve got archaeologists and all sorts up there, brushing the bloody peat off the bones.’

  ‘
Then who knows how far she can go?’ said Sue. ‘Where can we send Richie if Jennet can find him wherever he is? Mary Hornwright from down the hill moved to Harrogate, we were going to send him to stay with her, but it isn’t safe is it? It isn’t safe anywhere.’

  ‘Shh, listen.’ Old Ma Ramsgill pointed at the radio.

  ‘In preparation for the opening of the new reservoir in the Washburn Valley, Thruscross Dam has already been closed to perform a test flood. The water should be at the expected level of the final reservoir in the next few days.’

  The Ramsgills stared at the radio, all thinking the same thing. How will Jennet react to that?

  ‘Oh! What’s that?’ Sue jumped to her feet at the sound of a horn, but John beat her to the window.

  ‘Fire engine and ambulance. They’re heading to the dam. Must have been another accident.’

  Silence.

  It was broken by Sue, who almost whispered, ‘John, do you see her?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That woman. On the edge of the wood. Staring at the house.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘What does she look like?’ Old Ma Ramsgill asked, joining them at the window.

  ‘Young, long dark hair, a bit wild. Dressed in, I don’t know, a wool skirt? It’s plain anyway, dowdy. And she’s clutching a shawl around herself.’

  ‘That’s her.’

  Sue and John stared at Ma.

  ‘We have no time to waste. She’s coming after thee next. Either that or Richie.’

  ‘She’s smiling,’ Sue said. ‘Waving. Now she’s gone. What does that mean? Why did she wave? She looked almost – friendly.’

  ‘Let’s hope she recognised thee.’

  ‘Recognised her – what do you mean, Ma?’ John asked.

  ‘Remember I told thee last week – the only one in the village that didn’t shun her were Mary Farmer. Thy great-great-great . . . Bugger it. Thy ancestor, Sue.’

  ‘So am I safe?’

  Old Ma Ramsgill shrugged. ‘Who knows? She might have been mocking thee, but thee’ve a better chance than the rest of us, lass.’

  ‘Does that mean Richie’s safe too?’

  Ma stared out the window. ‘Doubt it, lass. He may have Farmer blood, but he’s also a Ramsgill, and he bears the name of the one she hates most.’

  A banging on the door made them all jump. John went to answer it. He came back into the room with Wilf.

  ‘I’ve seen her, Ma, I’ve seen her. So’s the Stockdale girl.’

  ‘So have I,’ said Sue.

  ‘She’s going to kill the whole damn lot of us,’ Wilf said, sinking down on to the sofa.

  ‘Not if I can help it,’ Ma said and shuffled back to her armchair. ‘But we’re going to have to move quick.’

  ‘What can we do? Her bones will soon be gone, and anyway, we can’t get near them. We can’t bind her to them as you did before,’ Sue said, her fear evident in her strident voice.

  ‘The reservoir,’ John said from the window. ‘It’s already filling, if we bind her to one of those buildings, she’ll be under the water and can do no harm.’

  ‘Aye, that might work, Son.’

  ‘But which building? What has the strongest connection to her?’

  ‘The church,’ Ma said. ‘She hated it, as it did her. And it’ll be the strongest protection.’

  ‘Can you do it, though? Can you stop her, Ma?’ Wilf asked.

  ‘I bloody well hope so, but I don’t know, Wilf. I don’t know. She’s stronger this time and I’m old. Old and tired. But I can tell thee one thing – I’ll have a damned good go at it, thee see if I don’t.’

  Return

  15th August 1966 – 7:00 p.m.

  Sue opened the door to the cottage to let Ma in. ‘God, what an awful night,’ she said as her mother-in-law entered.

  ‘God has nowt to do with it, lass. This is Jennet. Good to see thee’s nailed horseshoes on the door, at least thee’s listening now. Has thee a fire lit?’

  ‘Yes, come through.’

  Ma sat in the chair nearest the fire and held her hands and feet to the heat. ‘A glass of stout wouldn’t go amiss.’

  ‘Here you are, Ma, all ready for you,’ John said, offering a pint of Samuel Smith’s Oatmeal Stout to his mother. ‘Got special supplies in from the Stonehouse.’

  ‘Good, I’m going to need it.’

  ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t be more comfortable at Gate House?’

  ‘Don’t be a fool, boy, she knows it too well, it’s the first place Jennet will look for me when she realises what we’re up to. Did thee get the stone from Wolf Farm?’

  ‘Here.’ John picked up the stone he’d prised loose from the hearth of Jennet’s old home. ‘Ma . . .’

  ‘What, Son?’ Ma waited. ‘Spit it out, what’s up?’

  ‘Have you seen the water level?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Well, what do we do?’

  ‘What does thee think thee bloody does? Swim.’

  All three jumped at a flash of lightning and immediate thunderclap.

  Ma relaxed into her chair and sipped her stout.

  ‘Ma?’

  ‘Give me a minute, Son.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Aye, she’s strong all right. This storm? It’s her. She’s watching the valley flood and she loves it. Her curse is coming to pass.’ Ma opened her eyes. ‘We have to do this now, while she’s distracted. Any news from Wilf or Stockdales?’

  ‘Haven’t heard anything.’

  ‘Good. We’d know if either had been harmed. She’s forgotten about them – at least for the moment. We can’t waste any time. Pass me my bag, Son. And get ready with that hearthstone.’

  John passed her the rucksack and she pulled out a canvas drawstring bag, then the journals.

  ‘Do you really need all of those?’

  ‘Hope not, Son. But better to have ’em. Just in case.’

  John nodded.

  ‘Right, thee two, both ready?’

  John and Sue nodded.

  ‘Where’s nipper?’

  ‘With my sister in York,’ Sue replied.

  Ma nodded. ‘Let’s hope that’s far enough. At least we know she’s here.’

  ‘Stand by with that stone. I’ll tell thee when I’m ready.’ Ma heaved herself to her feet and stood directly in front of the fire, bracing herself against the stone wall before she stood straight and opened her canvas bag.

  She pulled out a cloth figure.

  ‘What the hell’s that, Ma?’

  ‘A poppet. It’s filled with moors’ peat and heather.’

  ‘Is that supposed to be Jennet?’ Sue asked.

  ‘It’s supposed to represent her.’

  ‘How? It’s just a doll, and a bloody rough one at that,’ John said.

  ‘Did thee not hear me? It represents her. It has the earth of her home and a slip of paper with her name and family history inside. Now, is thee going to ask me for a lesson or let me get on with this and save thy son?’

  No answer.

  ‘Right then, glad we’ve got that sorted, now hush while I do this.’

  She glared at her son and daughter-in-law then, satisfied, took a deep breath and held the poppet out before her.

  ‘Woman of cloth thee is now.

  ‘Woman of flesh and blood thee once were.

  ‘I name thee Jennet Scot.

  ‘No more shall thee do me and mine wrong.

  ‘Never again shall thee take the life of a Ramsgill.

  ‘By the power of the gods, my will and that of the Ramsgills I command this.’

  She threw the poppet on to the fire and John and Sue jumped back at the flare of flame and spark.

  ‘I bind thee, Jennet Scot, to this valley.’ Ma threw a handful of salt into the fire, which burned green and blue.

  ‘I bind thee, Jennet Scot, to this valley.’ A handful of rosemary followed.

  ‘I bind thee, Jennet Scot, to this valley.’ Heather this time.

  ‘Is that it?’ Sue asked.

  ‘N
ot nearly,’ Ma replied. ‘If we’re lucky she won’t have noticed yet.’ She turned back to the fire. ‘Throw in that stone.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Thee heard me. Get it in the fire, quick.’

  John did as he was told.

  ‘I bind thee, Jennet Scot, to this hearthstone of Wolf Farm.’ Salt.

  ‘I bind thee, Jennet Scot, to this hearthstone of Wolf Farm.’ Rosemary.

  ‘I bind thee, Jennet Scot, to this hearthstone of Wolf Farm.’ Heather.

  Ma turned to John and Sue. ‘Get it out of the fire. Use them tongs. And get it to the church, quick as thee likes. She won’t notice, yet. This cottage means nowt to her, it’s new. But she ain’t daft, she’ll work it out soon enough.’

  John fished the stone out of the fire with the poker and tongs and it clanged on the hearth.

  ‘Care, boy! Don’t break it, this is our only chance.’

  ‘Sorry, Ma.’

  Sue passed him a folded towel and John lifted the stone and headed out the door.

  ‘Go quickly, Son. Thee too, Sue. I’ll distract her best I can.’

  ‘I bloody well hope so,’ John muttered.

  *

  ‘John, look how deep it is already.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘How can we get this bloody great big stone out to the church by swimming? It’ll drown us both.’

  ‘Wait here.’ John dashed off and returned ten minutes later dragging a small rowing boat along the edge of what was now most decidedly looking like a reservoir.

  ‘Wilf’s old fishing boat,’ he said with a grin. ‘The old bugger had me rescue it from the river and drag it up the bloody hill last month. Can’t bear to see anything go to waste or be chucked out until there’s nothing left of it to chuck. It should get us and the stone out there, at least.’

  They heaved the stone into the bottom of the boat, then John held it steady while Sue climbed in. He pushed off and launched himself inside – a sprawl of legs and arms that she could not help laughing at despite the severity of the situation. Her laughter cut off at a vicious blast of lightning and thunder. ‘That struck the bank – she only just missed us.’

  ‘Bloody hell! She knows what we’re doing – quick, get rowing, we haven’t got much time. I hope to God Ma knows what she’s doing.’