Ghosts of Yorkshire

by Karen Perkins

  ‘No, they let me go the next morning.’

  Helen nodded. ‘Have you heard about Dan?’

  ‘No,’ Donna said. ‘What’s happened to him?’

  ‘He still hasn’t spoken,’ Sarah said. ‘Other than repeating “No”.’

  ‘It’s a catatonic state, apparently, probably to do with post-traumatic stress or something,’ Mike added.

  ‘Oh my goodness, tell me he isn’t still in police custody,’ Donna said.

  ‘No, he’s at the Briary,’ Sarah said. Donna looked puzzled. ‘The psychiatric unit at Harrogate District Hospital,’ Sarah explained. ‘I’ve been to see him a couple of times, and he’s just . . . just not there.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s his body, but it’s like no one’s home.’

  ‘So he won’t be fit to stand trial,’ Donna said.

  Sarah broke into sobs and Mike comforted her.

  ‘No,’ Helen said. ‘He doesn’t even know his own name. There won’t be a trial.’

  ‘But he killed Charlie in front of everyone,’ Donna said. ‘Or rather, Reginald FitzUrse did.’

  ‘He’s lost his mind,’ Ed said. ‘He’ll never get out of hospital.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Donna said.

  ‘So you bloody well should be,’ Alec said. ‘Selling crap like that spirit board, destroying people’s lives. It’s dangerous! You’re dangerous.’

  ‘Alec,’ Helen said.

  ‘No, he’s right, Helen,’ Donna said. ‘Nothing like this has ever happened before. I’ve burned all my spirit boards and I know most other retailers have as well, despite the way people have reacted.’

  ‘What do you mean, despite the way people have reacted? People have condemned them on the news.’

  Donna shrugged. ‘Hasn’t stopped everybody wanting one. I could have sold a couple of hundred these last few days. People have come from Leeds, York and even further away to buy the exact same type that you used.’

  The Castle Players stared at her, mouths open.

  ‘Nowt so queer as folk.’ Mike recovered first.

  ‘I need a drink,’ Helen said.

  ‘I think we could all use one of those,’ Donna said, smiling. ‘The Borough Bailiff?’

  ‘No! No,’ Helen said, the second word calmer. ‘I don’t want to be in public, I can’t face people, I’m sick of phones being stuck in my face to take pictures for their blogs and whatever. We can go to mine, it’s on Finkle Street.’

  The others nodded and, in silence, they crossed the Market Place and walked through the narrow alleys to Helen’s.

  ‘Wine, beer or gin,’ Helen said, flicking lights on.

  ‘Gin and tonic please – a strong one,’ Mike said. ‘Beer just won’t do it tonight, and I never want to drink wine again.’

  ‘I’ll give you a hand,’ Donna said, following Helen into the kitchen while the others found seats in the lounge and sat in a shocked silence.

  Helen busied herself collecting glasses and ice cube trays. ‘The gin’s in that cupboard to the left,’ she told Donna. ‘And there should be tonic in the fridge.’

  Donna opened cupboard doors, looking for the right one. ‘Did you ever find the spirit board?’

  ‘No. I don’t know how many times we searched, but we covered every inch of that theatre and it was nowhere to be found.’

  ‘Then how did it get into your kitchen cupboard?’

  ‘What?’ Helen turned and dropped the glass she was filling with ice and lemon when she saw Donna holding the board. She pressed herself back against the counter, her face white with terror, arms stretched out as if to fend Donna and the board away.

  ‘What happened, are you okay?’ Alec said, rushing into the kitchen. ‘I heard . . . Where the hell did you get that? How dare you bring another one of those things in here!’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Donna said. ‘It’s the original one, I just found it.’ She indicated the cupboard.

  ‘Helen?’ Alec said quietly. ‘What’s going on?’

  Helen looked at him and her other friends gathered behind Alec in the doorway. ‘I-I-I don’t know. I don’t know how that got there. Honestly, I don’t.’ Her gaze flicked between Donna and the others, eyes wide. ‘You have to believe me, I didn’t put it there.’

  ‘You must have,’ Sarah said. ‘Who else would?’

  Helen just stared at the lettered board.

  ‘It will have been Broc,’ Donna said.

  ‘Broc? What are you talking about? We didn’t call on Broc,’ Ed said.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. He was connected to the others, they must have pulled him through with them.’

  ‘Pulled him through?’

  ‘From the spirit world,’ Donna said. ‘I suspect he’s been with Helen from the beginning.’

  ‘What about me? Does that mean a spirit’s been with me too?’ Alec asked.

  ‘I think that’s likely, otherwise you wouldn’t have gone along with everything.’

  ‘Mauclerk,’ Helen said.

  ‘How do you know?’ Donna asked.

  ‘It makes sense. Behind the scenes, though very much involved, and particularly close to Morville who was played by Ed, Alec’s best friend.’

  ‘I see,’ Donna said, then paused as they all digested Helen’s words. ‘Well, that’s not important now. We need to deal with this board, close it—’

  ‘Destroy it,’ Sarah said.

  ‘Yes. Destroy it. Helen, Sarah, you finish off in here. The rest of you come with me to the garden, we need to make a fire. Do you have a barbecue stand or something, Helen?’

  ‘Yes, in the shed.’

  ‘Lighter fluid, matches?’

  Helen nodded, pointing to one of the kitchen drawers.

  *

  Helen and Sarah, calmer now, joined the others in the garden, carrying six gin and tonics which they put on the table. ‘Is it done?’ Helen indicated the fire blazing in the barbecue.

  ‘Not yet. I want all of you to do it,’ Donna said. ‘Mike, can you break it up somehow? Smaller pieces will burn better.’

  Mike nodded, gingerly picking up the board, and he carried it to the back steps. Placing it down so it overhung, he stamped on it, splitting it, then again and again.

  ‘That should do it, Mike,’ Donna said, taking a gentle hold of his shoulder. ‘Mike?’

  He paused, took a deep breath, and nodded. They collected the splinters and handed them out round the group so each Castle Player had part of the board to throw on to the fire.

  ‘Goodbye,’ Donna said and indicated to the others they should say the same as they burned their pieces of wood.

  ‘Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, don’t come back again. Goodbye you evil, murdering bastards,’ Helen said, stopping only when Donna handed her a drink. She took a long, large gulp. ‘Goodbye,’ she whispered.

  The others made similar sentiments as they threw the splinters of board on to the fire, ‘Goodbye, good riddance, leave us alone. Piss off back to Hell.’

  ‘Is that it, have they gone?’ Ed said after they had watched the flames for a while.

  ‘To be honest, I think they left in the theatre, once Henry and Becket had . . . ’ Donna couldn’t finish. She took a deep breath, then, ‘This is just closing the door, to make sure they stay gone. Let’s go in, though, and I’ll double check.’ She led the way, carrying her still full glass.

  Inside she knelt before each actor in turn, closed her eyes a moment, then looked up at them from under her lashes. ‘There’s no one here that shouldn’t be,’ she said after a couple of minutes. ‘Your auras are clear.’

  ‘That’s that then,’ Alec said.

  ‘Not quite. You’ve all been exposed to the spirit world, I want you to protect yourselves spiritually every day to make sure nothing else attaches to you.’

  ‘You mean this could happen again? What, we’re targets now?’ Sarah asked. ‘I’ve lost my husband, my children have lost their father, and two of the best people I know are dead, and this can happen
again?’

  ‘Possibly. Don’t worry,’ she added quickly, recognising panic in Sarah’s rising voice, ‘it’s very unlikely, more to be safe than sorry really.’

  ‘Too late for that,’ Alec said.

  Donna broke the ensuing silence. ‘I want you to imagine wrapping yourselves up in a cloak of white light, so your whole body is covered, head to foot, can you do that now?’

  Helen and Sarah nodded and closed their eyes, then the men agreed. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Now call on your guardian angels to protect you and keep you safe.’

  Alec’s eyes snapped open, then he closed them again – protest gone before it was uttered.

  Donna waited a moment, then said, ‘That’s it, that’s all you have to do, but do it every morning and every night. Make it part of your routine, when you brush your teeth, something like that, so you don’t forget.’

  ‘So what happens now?’ Helen asked.

  ‘Now you get on with your lives,’ Donna said. ‘As best you can.’

  ‘How are we supposed do that?’ Alec said.

  ‘Well, Mike and I have been talking – I want to get away from this place, start again where nobody knows us,’ Sarah said. ‘Give John and Kate a chance at a normal life.’

  ‘You’d take them away from Dan?’ Ed said, incredulous. ‘Hasn’t he been through enough?’

  ‘He doesn’t even know who they are,’ Sarah said. ‘It nearly broke Kate when he looked through her and didn’t recognise her. I know Dan’s in hell, and I feel so sorry for him, but I won’t consign our kids there too.’

  ‘Well, you two bugger off then, take Dan’s kids, I’ll stick by him,’ Ed said. ‘I’ll make sure he has someone fighting for him.’

  ‘Yes, me too,’ Alec said. ‘We’ll get him the best medical help, then the best legal help. He didn’t do this, he was used by a vengeful ghost. It’s not fair to just leave him in there.’

  They sat in silence for a while, Sarah burying her face into Mike’s shoulder, then Donna asked, ‘What about you, Helen, do you have any plans?’

  ‘I’ve had a lot of time to think about that,’ she said and managed a small smile. ‘I’m going to write a book about what happened.’

  ‘What? Do you really think that’s a good idea?’ Sarah said. ‘Surely it’s better to try to forget, put it all behind you, not immerse yourself in it by writing about it.’

  ‘How else will the real story be told? Everyone thinks that Paul, Charlie and Dan went mad – some kind of mass hysteria. As Ed just said, they weren’t mad, and I want to set the record straight. I started all this by doing that bloody séance, I owe them that much, and maybe it will help Dan too – at least the proceeds may help pay for his care.’

  ‘It’s your penance,’ Donna said quietly.

  ‘Exactly. My penance.’

  The End

  Parliament of Rooks

  Haunting Brontë Country

  Ghosts of Haworth (Book 1)

  Karen Perkins

  From the Back Cover:

  "Lush and atmospheric, this novel is dark and moody with supernatural elements and accurate historical details." - The BookLife Prize by Publishers Weekly

  Parliament of Rooks, the new historical paranormal novel by Karen Perkins, contrasts the beautiful, inspiring village of Haworth today with the slum – or rookery – it was during the industrial revolution: rife with disease, heartache, poverty, and child slavery in the mills.

  In 2017, life expectancy in the UK is 81.

  In 1848 Haworth, it was 22.

  Nine-year-old Harry Sutcliff hates working at Rooks Mill and is forever in trouble for running away to the wide empty spaces of the moors – empty but for the song of the skylark, the antics of the rabbits, and the explorations of Emily Brontë. Bound together over the years by their love of the moors, Emily and Harry develop a lasting friendship, but not everyone is happy about it – especially Martha, Harry’s wife.

  As Martha's jealous rages grow in ferocity, Harry does not realise the danger he is in. A hundred and fifty years later, this danger also threatens Verity and her new beau, William. Only time will tell if Verity and William have the strength to fight off the ghosts determined to shape their lives, or whether they will succumb to an age-old betrayal.

  “You are my Demon.

  This is my Exorcism.”

  – Verity Earnshaw

  One for sorrow,

  Two for mirth.

  Three for a funeral,

  Four for birth.

  Five for Heaven,

  Six for Hell,

  Seven for the Devil, his own self.

  – Old English nursery rhyme

  Prologue

  Haworth, March 1838

  Martha hitched up the bundle strapped to her front. Satisfied Baby John was secure, she grasped the handle and began to haul the full bucket up the well shaft.

  John barely mewled in protest at the violent, rhythmic action, already used to the daily routine, and Martha pushed thoughts of the future out of her mind. Her firstborn was sickly, and she was surprised he had survived his first two months. He was unlikely to live much longer.

  She stopped to rest, her body not yet fully recovered from the rigours of the birthing, then bent her back to her task once more. She had too much to do to indulge in a lengthy respite.

  Once she had the water and had scrubbed their rooms clear of coal dust and soot, she’d be up to the weaver’s gallery to start on the day’s pieces.

  She stopped again, took a couple of deep breaths, then coughed as fetid air filled her struggling lungs. Bracing herself, she continued her quest for water, cursing the dry February that had caused the well to run so low.

  At last she could see the bucket, water slopping with each jerk of the rope. Reaching over, she grasped the handle and filled her ewers.

  Adjusting Baby John once more, she bent, lifted, and embarked on the trudge homeward.

  ‘Blasted slaughterman!’ she cried, just catching herself as she slipped on the blood pouring down the alley past the King’s Arms and on to Main Street. She’d forgotten it was market day tomorrow. The slaughterhouse was busy today.

  Another deep breath, another cough, and Martha trudged on, the bottom of her skirts soaked in blood.

  She heard the snort of the horses and the trundle of cart wheels on packed but sticky earth just in time, and was already jumping out of the way before the drayman’s warning shout reached her.

  ‘Damn and blast thee!’ she screeched as she landed in the midden anext the King’s Arms, which stank of rotten meat and offal from the slaughterhouse next door.

  She clambered back to her feet, checked Baby John was unharmed, then noticed her empty ewers lying in the muck beside her.

  Covered in blood and filth she ran after the dray, cursing at the top of her voice, then stopped. That wasn’t the drayman sat atop his cart of barrels. It was a trap carrying a passenger.

  She watched the carriage come to a halt by the church steps, and a jealous rage surged in the pit of her stomach as the passenger alighted.

  Emily Brontë had returned to Haworth.

  Part One

  December 2016

  “I wish I were a girl again,

  half-savage and hardy, and free.”

  Wuthering Heights

  Emily Brontë, 1847

  Haworth, West Yorkshire

  1.

  ‘There she is, about bloody time! I have better things to do than hang about here,’ the van driver said, just loudly enough for me to hear.

  At the same time, he returned the rude gesture of the Range Rover driver who had just squeezed past the van on the narrow, cobbled lane.

  Out of breath from my steep climb up Main Street, I smiled weakly and jangled my new keys at the man and his mate.

  ‘At least there’s not much to shift,’ I heard one of them say as I unlocked the front door. I wondered if I’d been meant to hear this comment too, but decided I didn’t care. No, I didn’t have much to shift �
� just clothes, books, a laptop and a few personal things I could not bear to leave behind in the ruins of my marriage.

  I had taken only the furniture and furnishings I’d had when I met Antony; none of the joint purchases. I’d left our CD and vinyl collection alone – the CDs were already in my iTunes library and I had nothing to play the vinyl on anyway – and had even left all the kitchen paraphernalia. Everything held memories; memories I knew I had to leave behind else turn mad.

  The only thing I had brought out of the divorce was money – enough to buy the old restaurant, turn it into a guesthouse, and start again. That was all I wanted.

  ‘Them bloody roads ain’t fit for vehicles,’ the driver’s mate said. ‘Some bugger’s knocked the wing mirror off!’

  I landed back in reality with a bump – the actuality of my dream move was car horns, angry men and chaos. Not quite what I’d hoped for from this quaint West Yorkshire village clinging on to a steep hillside in Brontë Country.

  I tuned the noise out again and smiled. Brontë Country. Charlotte, Emily and Anne had lived a minute’s walk away from where I now stood and lived. I could see the parsonage from the top windows of my new home. I’d been a fan of their books since discovering them at school, and had dreamt of living here one day.

  ‘That’ll be going on the bill,’ the driver said, stomping through the entrance, arms full of suitcases.

  ‘I told you to park in the museum car park,’ I said.

  ‘I’m not paying four quid to park the van and carry stuff further than I need to.’

  ‘Seems cheap now, though, doesn’t it?’ I smiled at him with no sincerity. He’d done nothing but complain since he’d arrived to collect my belongings. He hated the roads, hated his satnav, hated the hills, hated the cobbles, hated his job, life and pretty much everything else. I was beyond irritated, but I would not let him spoil this for me.