The Stone Dweller's Curse: A Story of Curses, Madness, Obsession and Love

by Jacqueline Henry

It had started to annoy her, a persistent feeling of irritation growing under the surface, lingering in the back of her mind, her tingling fingertips forming fists. She did everything he wanted to do, allowed him to distract her, working on his croft only important when it suited him. He suggested a trip to Hermaness to bird watch. Bird watch! She thought he had been joking at first. He wasn’t. Muness Castle, Skaw beach, The Unst Heritage Centre and Boat Haven. Every tourist attraction he could think of they went to, except for the blowhole; that was too far to walk had been his excuse. It was too close to Erdin Valley was the reality. They had dinner at Kate’s one night and she met his nephew Ronan, another pretty Murphy boy, the family resemblance giving her an idea of what Dylan would have looked like as a boy, with hair. Talk of the crofts had come up, Dylan’s restoration and Deidre’s ruin. The stories of the valley were repeated and Deidre took the opportunity to say that she wanted Dylan to come with her and have a look at the croft but that he was too scared, that he was as bad as Mavis with his superstitions. He openly agreed with her, his manner devoid of humour. That kind of stuff freaked him out, he said, and he didn’t want to go there. He didn’t want to talk about it and he didn’t want to go to Erdin Valley. Obstinate, Deidre realised, was a newly discovered facet of his personality.

  The following night he made dinner for her, just the two of them by an open fire and candle light in his tiny one bedroom cottage in Baltasound, a quaint whitewashed chalet by the bay at the end of a long narrow road. Small farmsteads dotted the road leading up to it, alleviating the feeling of isolation, the green fields populated by sheep and ponies. She’d stayed the night and slept in his bed. He’d spooned her and they’d both fallen asleep, and she’d woken the next morning with his arm draped across her, snoring quietly into her neck. She couldn’t believe she’d met him, couldn’t believe she’d had to come so far to find him and it made her stomach roll at the thought of what she could have missed, lost, would never have known if she’d never come here. Where would she be now, right now, if she’d never taken this step. She’d be alone, miserable, still deflecting reptiles. She wouldn’t be this happy.

  The old women gushed over their new relationship, Stuart grinning at her, Vee frequently nudging her in the ribs with a cheeky wink. Deidre giggled and blushed like a schoolgirl, and she loved it. This was the most wonderful place on earth. This was the most magical time she’d ever had in her life.

  They spent three days down in Lerwick playing tourists. They spent an entire day in their room becoming lovers. Dangerous, she knew, her head telling her he would be leaving in a couple of weeks. Then what? But she didn’t think about tomorrow or next week, the future; pushing those thoughts out of her mind. These were the happiest days she’d ever lived and she relished them, cherished every minute and savoured every moment as if it was the first she’d ever tasted and the last she’d ever have. The days dawdled through their fingers, the ticking, finite time left unspoken. Whatever was to come at the end of this, it would be worth it; the seashell he’d given her that night by the bay sitting forever precious on her bedside table.

  But despite all of this, the urge to return to the croft plagued her. That touch of something in the chimney had been like a spider bite, infecting her, sending her into fevers of urgency and desperation to get back there, to claim what had been left there for her.

  Just one visit.

  It was now an old, well-rutted habit to her, thinking about the croft, the chimney, what might be in there, immersing herself in it for the past six months as a distraction from grief and the abject loneliness and emptiness of her life. It had been her salvation. But she had Dylan now, she didn’t need to go back there, maybe it was best to leave whatever was in that chimney where it was. Forget about it and eventually this preoccupation she had would leave her.

  But old habits never die. Once an addict always an addict, the reminder of the urge always present in the mind through the sheer effort of abstinence alone. It didn’t fade, the need to return to the croft lingering in the back of her mind like an unpaid bill, the interest mounting with every passing day, her tension intensifying with every distraction, every excuse. All she required was one afternoon of Dylan’s time.

  It was starting to become an issue for her, her building anger out of proportion to the denied request so she’d brought it to his attention again this morning while helping him unload bags of lime mortar.

  ‘I’m helping you with your croft but you won’t take a couple of hours to come and see mine.’ Her intention had been to say it lightly, jokingly, but it hadn’t come out that way, her voice whiny and sharp even to her own ears.

  Dylan had groaned loudly, his irritation with this subject quite clear. ‘Not again, Deidre, please. Why do you need to go to that place again? You’ve already been there twice,’ he said impatiently, his tone as whiny and petulant as hers.

  ‘I just wanted you to see it,’ she replied lamely, stung and aggravated by his response.

  ‘I’ve seen plenty of derelict crofts and I don’t need to walk for over two hours - each way,’ he added pointedly, ‘to see another one.’

  ‘We can go at lunch time. We can stop in at Walters and grab something to eat like we always do and then go to the valley,’ she persisted.

  Dylan had dropped a bag of mortar inside the doorway with a thump. He looked at her, squinting. ‘Why do you want me to go there?’

  Because I’m too scared to go alone, because I hear my Dad’s voice there. ‘I just want you to see it,’ she’d said.

  He’d relented, under duress and it had been like dragging a teenager to a senior’s tea party, his quiet mood bordering on sullen. She looked at the back of his head, his bearing truculent as she followed him down the side of the hill to Hart Croft.

  ‘Wow, it’s pretty decrepit,’ he said, a hint of futility in his tone as he walked around to the front of the cottage, surveying it. Deidre followed, her ears on high alert, glancing around, listening to the wind whispering through the grasses like a breath through vocal chords. The smell of heather filled the air, the valley awash with its purple hue.

  Dylan stepped up to the front face of the building, smacking his hand against the stone before sticking his head through the empty doorway. Deidre stepped up beside him.

  ‘Ladies first,’ he said, standing aside to let her through.

  She stepped inside. ‘Needs a bit of gardening,’ she said, indicating the thistles standing around like Triffids at a tea party.

  ‘Yeah, a lick of paint and a couple of shelves and you won’t know the place,’ Dylan replied and they exchanged awkward smiles.

  ‘Aren’t you coming inside?’ she asked. She watched him enter through the doorway like a cat stepping over a puddle. ‘It’s okay, the roof won’t come down on us.’ She pointed up to the cloudy sky stealing a glance at the chimney. ‘So do you think it’s something that could be fixed?’

  Dylan whistled, looking around the interior. ‘It needs a lot of work. And it’s pretty remote. How would you get your materials here? I don’t even know how you’d get a car here, never mind a loaded truck.’

  ‘Yeah, true. True. Stuart was saying something about the back wall. Could you go around the back and see what the foundations are like around there. You know, cast your professional eye across it.’

  Dylan offered her a lopsided smile. ‘Sure. I need to go for a pee anyway.’

  He stepped back outside and she waited until he passed the vacant window before scrambling into the fireplace. She stood up carefully so as not to dislodge the soot, every muscle in her body tensing as she lifted her arm, reaching up into the hole, her eyes squeezed tight waiting to hear the voice, waiting to feel a touch, unearthly and cold. She was sweating she realised, all adrenal glands firing, her heart thumping in her ribs, the smell of soot in her nose, drying her throat. The hole was just out of reach. Stretching on her tiptoes, gaining more height, she patted around the base of the hole feeling grit against her fingertips, and then, something else. Her s
tomach burned, a cold rush flooding through her veins. Moving her fingers carefully, she was able to pinch it between her fingers and grasp it, carefully squatting down and out of the fireplace as Dylan passed by the window on his way back. Deidre turned around, her back to him, stuffing the object down her jeans as he stepped through the doorway.

  ‘Looks alright out there. Looks pretty solid,’ he said. ‘They made them to last back then. What’re you doing?’ he asked.

  Deidre turned around, breathing through her mouth to disguise the breathlessness she felt. She shook her head. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What’ve you been doing?’ he asked, his eyebrows knitting together as he came towards her. ‘What’s that all over you face?’ He reached out rubbing his index finger against her forehead, inspecting the black smudge transmitted onto his finger. Deidre lifted her hand to her face and saw that her fingers where black, Dylan noticing also.

  ‘What is that?’ He leaned into her, investigating the smudges on her skin. ‘It looks like soot.’ She saw his eyes slide over her shoulder to the black mouth of the fireplace. ‘Have you been in the chimney?’ he asked.

  She could feel the object taken from the chimney’s internal wall press against the bare skin of her upper thigh, grit and soot sprinkling down the inside of her jeans leg.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I was having a look to see if it was blocked or not.’

  ‘What?’ Dylan regarded her in amused surprise. ‘You shouldn’t be stepping into old chimneys,’ he advised, taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger. He kissed her on the lips, smiling. ‘You never know when they might come crashing down around you.’

  ‘I was just having a quick look.’

  His smiling eyes held her in his gaze and he kissed her again, long, soft and luxuriant and she felt herself melt into him. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. She recognised this kiss, a precursor of things to come, and she could feel his hands begin their prowl around her body.

  ‘Dylan,’ she said, but he pressed his mouth against hers. She pulled her head away. ‘We can’t here, all these nettles.’

  ‘Don’t worry about the nettles,’ he said breathlessly, ‘we don’t have to lie down.’ His hands were down under her thighs, lifting her up and pushing her against the wall next to the fireplace. He pressed himself between her legs, the object in her jeans pressing against her thigh. Dylan’s mouth was on hers, all softness gone from his kiss, his hands on her, under her layers to her bare skin, searching, hungry and groping for her breasts.

  ‘Dylan.’

  Focussed on his immediate objective, he didn’t respond, tugging and pulling her layers off as though they were on fire, her jacket, jumper, her long sleeved t-shirt, her singlet up and over her head, the straps of her bra yanked from her shoulders. She felt the cold of the stone against her naked back, the heat of Dylan’s breath against her skin, travelling down, his hot mouth clamping onto her nipple, the shocking delicious surprise of it melting her inside and she groaned, feeling herself open up and completely abandon herself to him. His teeth nibbled her skin, her breasts, sending electrical pulsations twitching through her, his hands sliding over her, moving down, unzipping her jeans, his fingers sliding their way inside her knickers, working and pushing deep between her legs.

  Oh God.

  His fingers played with her, teasing, gliding back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, slow and maddening, his fingertips touching and tormenting, his tongue hot and rough, pinching her hard nipples between his lips while he probed, penetrating, feeling, exploring, delving deeper and intimately into her.

  Oh God!

  Sliding in and out, back and forth, slowly, in, out, back, forth. Slow. Slow.

  ‘Oh God.’

  Her pulse quickened, her heartbeat thumping against her rib cage, her breathing ragged. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him close, her mouth seeking his, her legs splayed apart, open and wanton, allowing his hand, his fingers freedom to explore, penetrating deep inside her. Wanting. Wanting.

  ‘Don’t stop,’ she breathed, moaning, her fingers digging into the back of his neck, her back arching away from the cold stone, her legs barely able to hold her. ‘Don’t stop.’ She could hear his laboured breathing in her ear. It was excruciating, this point, this point, this exquisite precipice.

  Back and forth.

  ‘Aw!’ Her orgasm swept over her like a warm tidal wave, no cold, no wall, no gravity as she floated on the crest. ‘Aw,’ she murmured, feeling his mouth on her breasts, suckling, nibbling her nipples between his teeth, her body twitching in spasms.

  ‘What’s that?’ She heard his voice, her scrambled neurons unable to make sense of his question. ‘What is that?’

  He released her, abruptly stepping away, leaving her open and exposed, abandoned, the chill air enveloping her like a cold vapour, the hard cold wall against her back, her body still pulsating through her orgasm.

  The look on his face a mixture of revulsion and confusion. Deidre looked at him stupidly, half-naked, her hands pressed against the wall holding herself up, riding the sensations out as she followed his line of sight. The lump in her upper thigh. The bump bulged in her jeans like an engorged phallus. She didn’t recall it being that shape. In her haste to hide it, it had been no more than a blur of vague bland colour, soot and ambiguous form. It felt gritty and dirty, itching against her skin. Shaking, she wrapped her arms around herself, hiding her nakedness. It was cold. Dylan wanted to know what was down her jeans leg.

  Her secret. What she’d come here to find. Her purpose.

  Dylan stood waiting, looking bewildered and uncertain and she reached down, pulling the lump from inside her jeans, grit and soot sprinkling to the floor. Evidence of twine that had once secured the stiff covering was still visible. The material had hardened with age and the heat of long ago fires. She prised it apart revealing a black crucifix, a stiff leather cord coiling down its length like a desiccated worm. Unravelling the cord, she studied the simple construction of the cross about the size of a her hand in length and width, heavy, made of black polished stone, the surface chipped and pockmarked, nicked around the edges, a chunk broken off the bottom.

  She held it in her palm, sensing something she didn’t understand pierce through the deeper layers of her subconscious, whispering to her in a language of feelings and emotions that spoke to something older within her, primordial.

  ‘Maybe there is something to all these stories,’ Dylan said, his voice coming to her from a distance although he only stood a few feet away. ‘Throw it away, or put it back where you found it,’ he said, a sharpness in his voice that made Deidre look up at him. ‘Let’s get out of here. This place gives me the creeps.’ He looked around the floor of the croft, bending and picking up her tossed garments.

  Deidre looked down at the cross in her hand. Throw it away? She looked over at Dylan, he was turning her long sleeved t-shirt the right way out, a deep scowl on his face, his lips pressed tight, a faint flush of colour rouging his cheeks.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, holding out her bra, ‘get dressed.’

  She stuffed the cross into her back pocket, took the bra from him and dressed herself. They were both silent. She felt as if she was swimming through water, her world tilting on an odd angle, grit, soot and strands of disintegrating string making her thigh itch. She headed for the doorway, pulling the cross from her back pocket and gripping it tightly.

  ‘Deidre.’ She turned and looked at Dylan. ‘I want you to throw it away,’ he said.

  She smiled at him. She didn’t know what else to say or do. She wasn’t throwing it away. It was hers. George had left it here for her to find.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said lightly. ‘Are you really that superstitious Dylan? I just want to have a look at it.’

  ‘Have a look at it here and leave it here.’

  She could feel the smile still sitting on her lips, a painful smile, heavy to hold. ‘Dylan…’ She could feel her lips twitch under the strain.
There was no smile on Dylan’s face.

  ‘You knew this was here didn’t you,’ he said, his eyes narrowing. ‘All that talk about the cross and you didn’t say a word.’

  She shook her head. ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘Throw it away. Get rid of it.’

  His eyes held hers. It was an ultimatum, he was telling her what to do. Her father had told her what to do. She’d been pinned down by his overprotectiveness all her life. Since his death, her grief had been coupled with a frightening freedom she was only now beginning to accept and enjoy. She was responsible to no one. No one. She’d known this guy maybe ten days. He had no say. He was secondary to this. He would be gone by the end of next week.

  Deidre felt her ire rise and she stood silent, reluctant to submit, her grip on the cross tightening. This should be one of the most exhilarating moments of her life; she’d just solved a mystery that had ruled her existence for the past six months, had followed the trail to the other side of the world and she now, at this moment, held its treasure in her hand. And he wanted her to throw it away! Get rid of it, he’d said. She’d come half way around the world hunting this thing down and he expected her to just get rid of it. She looked down at the cross, at its stark plain beauty and wondered about its history. It was precious. She could see that it was old, could feel its weight in her hand. This was the cross that they spoke of, the thing they feared and revered with awe.

  ‘Okay, do what you want,’ Dylan said finally, his tone curt, walking around her and out the door. He stopped outside and turned back to face her and they looked at each other through the empty doorway.

  Deidre held her grip on the cross, and her silence, until he turned and walked away. She contemplated the object in her hand. George had left it here for her, had told her where to find it in a silent request to possess and protect it. She pulled the cord over her head, the leather so stiff and moulded into shape over the decades it didn’t sit properly around her neck. She pulled it tight, hearing the dry crackle of the old leather as she stretched it, the cross resting heavily against her chest as she watched Dylan make his way up the hill towards the Coffin Road. He wasn’t waiting for her, she could see the determination in his progress as she watched him walk away, out of sight, and he didn’t turn back once.