The Coffin Path_'The perfect ghost story'

by Katherine Clements

  The second lamb has injuries to its hindquarters, bloodied and mauled, a hunk of flesh savagely ripped. It lies in a wine-red pool. This one would certainly have bled to death, if the shock did not end it.

  He looks around. Usually, when a lamb dies, the mother will stay with the body. He’s seen pitiful displays from ewes refusing to accept they cannot resurrect their young with a nudge of the head or the kick of a hoof. He once found one standing guard over a half-eaten, rotting carcass that must have been dead five days. But there’s no sign of any mother here.

  He sees the third corpse before Bracken reaches it, puts her head back and howls, as if she knows and feels the tragedy and the strangeness that is starting to creep beneath his composure and worry at the threads of his understanding.

  This one has no head. The front of the body is gone, leaving a three-legged mess of muscle and bone that is somehow obscene. He’s not squeamish and has seen his share of death but something about this makes his skin crawl.

  Bracken sniffs the lamb and whines. Her hackles are up. She backs away from the carcass, snarling, ears flattened. He looks about him, expecting to find something that will make all this fall into place. He feels a sudden unnerving sense that he is not alone and listens hard, scanning the ground for tracks or signs. But there is nothing, save the still, silent figures of the White Ladies, the breath of wind through the heather: the constant song of the moor.

  He lifts the small body, shoulders it, and makes his way back to do the same with the others. He keeps one eye on the stones, suspecting now that whatever creature did this is still here, hidden, watching him. He has no weapon to protect himself, save the small blade at his belt: he should leave. Now.

  The lambs have been dead long enough to stiffen and for the wounds to congeal, but as he collects the carcasses, he feels the leak of blood down his back, sees spots of it arc across his chest. Bracken falls in at his ankles, keeping close, cowed and silent.

  He sees Mercy at the window of her chamber as he nears the Hall, a lone, pale figure, indistinct behind the panes. She’s in her nightgown, hair loose, looking out towards the moor as if she’s been waiting for him. He wonders briefly if she’s ill – it’s unlike her to be in her chamber at this hour – but then she moves away and the glass is nothing but reflected sky, darkness within. She must have seen him coming.

  Sure enough, by the time he’s decided to dump the bodies behind the barn, away from the byre where a couple of ailing lambs are separated from the flock, and has settled Bracken to guard them, he finds her in the kitchen, already fully dressed in uncustomary skirts, and attending to the day’s indoor work. It’s the first time he’s seen her in women’s garb, apart from when she goes to church on Sundays, and he’s momentarily struck by how different she looks at close quarters, how unlike herself. The old woman and the child are there too, and he’s suddenly aware of the gore-splattered state of his shirt. He should have washed and changed.

  ‘Oh! Lord above!’ Agnes cries, as he enters. The three of them stare at him. The boy, helping at the table, gawps, flour-dusted fingers creeping out to find Agnes’s.

  Ellis touches his hat, averts his eyes. ‘I’ve something to show you.’

  Mercy steps forward. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’

  ‘Better come with me.’

  She wipes her hands on her apron and pushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear, face grim.

  The two of them stand behind the barn, looking at the pile of pathetic, torn bodies.

  ‘Where?’

  He’ll spare her the details. ‘At the White Ladies.’

  ‘All three?’

  He nods.

  Her colour drains. ‘If you’re lying to me . . .’ She gives him a hard stare, challenging him to look away, but he holds steady. He is not lying about this.

  ‘It makes no sense at all,’ she says. ‘And you say there was no sign of any mother?’

  ‘No ewes within two hundred yards or more.’

  She touches her hand to her forehead and he notices that her fingers are trembling. ‘I’ve never seen anything like this, except that one time, but never before that, and now three in one night. Who . . . What would do this?’

  He shakes his head. ‘It can’t be foxes. Dogs, perhaps. A large one could do it.’

  ‘A wild dog would kill for food, surely, and whatever did this was not hungry.’

  ‘I knew a pack of them once, big enough to take lambs, shearlings even, but they would always eat them, tear them apart, fight over the meat. We’d find bones scattered. This is not the same.’

  ‘Do you think . . . a human hand? Thieves?’

  ‘For what purpose? What would be the gain?’

  She sighs heavily and turns away, thinking. ‘We must tell Ambrose this time. Hide them in the stables. Keep them away from the horses. Find a sack to cover them. And don’t tell anyone else. Not John or Henry.’ She fixes him with an uncompromising stare. ‘It’s important. Do you hear me?’

  ‘Yes.’ She should know his word can be trusted – he’s not mentioned their previous find to anyone.

  She takes a few paces away from him, comes back. ‘We’ll have to start a night watch. Ambrose gave you a pistol.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you know how to use it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you’ll take first watch tonight. Ambrose will be back the day after tomorrow. Say nothing till then. And change your shirt. You do have a clean one?’

  He nods.

  She starts to walk away, shoulders bunched. He watches her go, noticing the curve of her waist pinched by stays, the sway of her skirts. As she reaches the corner of the barn she stops, turns back.

  ‘What do you truly think?’ she asks. He sees urgency in her eyes, the seeking for answers that will not come – he recognises it. ‘What could have done this?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he replies, and shrugs, because he cannot bring himself to tell her the whole truth. What good would it do?

  As he’d collected the small mauled bodies he’d tried to ignore the creeping sense of dread he’d felt, the growing conviction that he was not alone on the moor. The dog had kept silent, slinking close to his heels, tail between hind legs. He told himself he’d done this a hundred times before. But he knew he’d never seen anything quite like it, and as he’d walked down the fell he did not dare look back, for fear of what he might see. Bestwicke’s words had stalked him: They say there’s something up here, something evil . . .

  Chapter 11

  I cannot sleep. I lie in bed and study the coins.

  Each is small, about the size of a buttercup head, decorated with strange patterns and the crude impression of a horned beast – perhaps a stag, or something more sinister. In the honeyed glow from the tallow candle they have a rich golden sheen. Though I cup them in my palm, they remain icy cold.

  I’m sure they are two of the three lost coins but cannot bring myself to return them to Father. I want to keep them with me a little longer, as if by touching them, brooding over them, I’ll be able to fathom how this came about. I feel the need to keep them close. Lately, Father’s temper is frayed and I do not want to give any cause for worry or reason for it to flare. I’ve noticed how he frets, how he’s nervous and unsettled. Perhaps their return would calm him, but I doubt it. The mystery will surely plague him as much as it plagues me. And if he gives any heed to the old stories, it will only make things worse. In his current mood, I think it best to wait. When I have answers, I’ll give them back.

  One coin marks the first to go . . .

  The first, found beneath Sam’s pillow. It would have been easy for the child to take the coins but I cannot understand his reason or why he would lie once his wrongdoing was discovered. There was something in the vehemence of his denial that makes me think he was telling the truth. He’s been at the Hall since, the
lamb following him around like a pet, but has not mentioned the coin again, and I dare not bring it up.

  A second bodes the fall . . .

  If Ellis Ferreby is to be believed, the second was found beneath his bedroll. If Sam took the coins, why would he hide one in the hayloft? The coins went missing on the day I birthed the season’s first lamb, before Ellis ever came here, so it cannot be anything to do with him. I think again of that day and the wraithlike figure I saw in the fog. Was it a thief? A footpad? Someone who found his way into Scarcross Hall unseen? But, if so, why take only these tokens, and how so, when they were well hidden? And that does not explain how they have found their way back to me.

  Above all, there is one constant nagging question: where is the third coin?

  The third will seal a sinner’s fate . . .

  The image of Ellis Ferreby in his blood-streaked shirt comes to the fore. I did not say the things I wanted to this afternoon when I had the chance. I’m prevented from speaking my mind because he refuses to speak his. I want to know every detail of what he found, exactly what he saw. He must have some opinion on who or what could have killed those lambs with such unaccountable violence. I think he was not honest with me. But he’s not from these parts and won’t know the ill omen of his find.

  The Devil take them all . . .

  Ellis Ferreby will not know why such a thing must be kept quiet. How can I trust him when he hides his mind from me? I see no reason why he should lie, but in his silence I sense the space for secrets.

  I slip from beneath the coverlet and tiptoe across the room. In the corner there is a small hole in one of the floorboards. I slide a finger inside and prise up the board. Beneath is a small, dusty nook – a secret hiding place I discovered as a girl. Here I keep the two objects I treasure most: a red velvet pouch, now worn and threadbare, holding the wedding band that belonged to my mother, and a pretty ebony box, decorated with bone-white vines, flowers and a fancy golden lock plate.

  Father gave me this box on my tenth birthday. It was a wedding gift to my mother, made to remind her of the day she became his. On the lid, inlaid in ivory, is the double intertwined B of his signet. The key was lost long ago and the box has never been opened in my memory. When I was younger, the contents were a source of great frustration to me. I would shake it, feeling the shift of something inside, and hold it to my ear as if expecting it to whisper its secrets, but I was forbidden to force the lock. Father said that would sully my mother’s memory and so be the worst sort of betrayal to him. In this, he would not bend. So, though I came close a few times in my childish tempers, I never dared. And as I grew older, the mystery of it faded. Years go by when I don’t think of it at all. But these things are still special to me, the only keepsakes I have of the woman who gave her life for mine.

  Now, I lift the velvet pouch, untie the drawstring and take out the ring. It is a simple gold band that barely fits on my finger. I put it to my lips – a habit since childhood – and murmur a prayer, then slip it back into the pouch along with the two coins. They will be safe here, until I decide what to do with them. I place the pouch back beneath the boards, metal chinking against metal, and replace the slat.

  As I sit, thinking, a sound comes to me, quiet at first, pushing its way to consciousness:

  A dull thunk . . . a pause . . . a long, dragging ssshrrrrrssssst . . .

  Suddenly alert, I listen hard. Night sounds become all too loud: creaking timbers, the wind sighing through missing slates, something scurrying in the chimney.

  Thunk . . . ssshrrrrrssssst . . .

  It cannot be Sam this time. Sam is at home, safe in his bed, with Dority and Ambrose.

  Without pause, I take up my candle and pad out onto the gallery.

  As before, the noise is coming from the old bedchamber.

  The hairs prickle on my arms, a chill dances down my spine. I wait a few moments, expecting Agnes or Father to emerge, sleep-eyed and disturbed too, but there’s no sign from either room.

  I make my way along the gallery, the candle spinning shadows ahead of me. Thin blue moonlight filters in through winter’s dirt on the big leaded windows in the hall, spilling puddles on the grey flags below. Fearful compulsion drives me on.

  I pause outside the door to the chamber. The noise seems quieter now. How can it have reached me when it has not disturbed Agnes, who sleeps just across the stairwell?

  I put my hand on the door and the noise stops. I hold my breath. I have an inkling that whoever or whatever is inside the room can hear me, is listening to me, just on the other side of the door.

  I lift my hand away. A few moments’ silence and the noise starts again.

  This time I don’t wait. I lift the catch and push the door. Through the crack the room exhales a sigh of damp air but it resists me, as if something is braced against the other side. Perhaps boxes have fallen against it.

  Again, the noise has stopped.

  With my heart in my mouth I put my shoulder to the door, meaning to heave whatever is behind it out of the way, but this time there’s no resistance and the door swings open on its hinges.

  Candlelight spills across the floor, joining the milky patches of moonlight. The bed hangings have been tied back – Agnes must have done that – but otherwise the room seems unchanged. There’s nothing at all behind the door.

  I force myself to go inside. The air is musty and chill, with the faint traces of sheep grease and dung. But, just as before, there’s another smell, charred and acrid, like smoke from a bone fire, and a heaviness, such as hangs in the valley just before a storm.

  Shaking off my foreboding, I make my way around the room, turning over empty crates, peering into corners. I find nothing – no rats’ nest or trapped bird. But then, when I turn back towards the bed, my eye falls upon the figure of a child.

  It is standing by the bed, next to the wall, silent and utterly still.

  The blood turns in my veins.

  For a few seconds, terror has me mute and frozen.

  Then I lift my candle and the indistinct form takes shape. This is no human child – it’s a wooden carving – a fire screen, fashioned and painted to look like a small boy.

  I remember it, next to the hearth in the parlour when I was young. Father used to tell me that it was another child, a brother to me, who misbehaved so badly that the fairies trapped him inside the wood. I would chatter to this ill-fated sibling sometimes, running my fingers over the strange, old-style clothes he wore and, once or twice, stuck needles into his flat, rosy cheeks to see if he would cry. I’ve not seen it for years and thought it long gone. Agnes must have found it and set it out, not wanting it to rot and decay with everything else.

  The memory of Father’s joke brings me back to myself – how he must have laughed at me. What a fool I’ve been, conjuring spirits in the night.

  I go to the open shutter, put my candle down upon the sill and look out into the night, my mind alive with questions.

  A movement by the gatepost catches my eye. My heart tilts, leaps into my throat to choke me again. There, obscured by darkness and moon shadow, is a figure. I strain to see past the reflection of the candle flame in the glass. My God – I swear this time I’m not imagining it. I can make out a pale shape, face tilted upwards to meet my gaze. And I’m suddenly sure it’s looking for me, waiting for me.

  I do not stop to think. I snatch the candle, run from the room and fly down the staircase, flame snuffed in my haste. I tug back the bolts on the heavy front door and run barefoot out into the night.

  No one is there.

  I go to the gatepost, straining to see into the blackness along the coffin path.

  Nothing.

  I spin back, heart racing, searching the windows of the house for the telltale glow of moving candle flame – Father wakeful and wandering, or Agnes in her nightgown, fetching a sleeping remedy from the herb patch – but there is
nothing: no shade at the gatepost, no face at the window, no lights, just a lone owl, swooping silently from the barn, body silhouetted against the moon-spun underbelly of the clouds.

  Chapter 12

  The rest of the night remains sleepless.

  Every time I close my eyes I see that pale impression in the dark. My ears strain for sounds from the old bedchamber. There is nothing but the screams of a vixen, somewhere far off, and the rush of wind through the willows in the copse. I rise before dawn and am warming the porridge pot over the kitchen fire by the time Agnes enters. She looks surprised to see me but asks no questions and I give no explanation.

  I try to distract myself. I take Bracken out onto the fell to watch the flock and walk the gullies to check for lambs in trouble. But it does not work. In the morning calls of moor birds I hear the moan and chatter of spirits. In the yelp of a dog, echoing from the valley, I hear the howl of demons. And I see small, mauled bodies in patches of white cotton grass.

  I know the stories. Though Father forbade talk of it, children will always disobey their elders. In the woods and the graveyard at the church, up on the moor at the White Ladies, we scared ourselves silly with tales of ancient curses, of wandering spirits and gruesome slayings, of the ancient dead rising from the bog. We dared each other to scream and sing and taunt the Devil with our dancing.

  The three coins. The slaughtered lambs. The figure in the fog.

  These things are familiar to me, the stuff of whispers in the schoolroom and tormented childhood nightmares. But as I grew older I put my trust in God and never really believed that the stories might hold truth.

  I decide it’s time to speak to Father.

  Back at the Hall I find Agnes in the kitchen mixing batter for the oatcakes. ‘Where’s Father?’

  She shrugs. She has that look on her that says she neither knows nor cares. They’ve probably quarrelled.

  I hear the creak of floorboards overhead and the uneven rhythm of Father’s footsteps.

  ‘Now, what’s he doing up there?’ she says. ‘I found him in the buttery yesterday, licking curds from his fingers. He’s no better than a child at times.’