They checked the front and back of the cottage before unlocking the door and going inside, but there was no sign of anyone. When they actually entered, they were in for a terrible shock, however: there was a man sitting in Bob's armchair by the stove.
Bob and Carol were both speechless, but the man seemed unfazed by the situation. He rose to his feet and smoothed down his grey suit. It was immaculately tailored, but the size of the lapels and buttons made it appear a little old-fashioned. He was a very thin man of indeterminate middle age, with slicked-back black hair and a pencil thin moustache. His eyes were also very dark and they glittered as he smiled charmingly at the Cowleys.
“Good afternoon, Mr and Mrs Cowley,” he said in smooth, almost liquid tones. “I count it a privilege to meet you at last. I am Eric Cain. I must apologise for the impersonal letter you received from my advocates, and I cannot blame you for not replying to it. Thus, I am here to represent myself in person and to explain my position.”
Bob could see that Carol was furious, her lips tightly held shut. Any moment now she was going to demand that Cain should leave. But he was overwhelmed with curiosity, so before she could vent her anger at the intrusion, he blurted out, “Hello Mr Cain. Please pardon what seems to me an obvious question, but how did you get inside? We locked the cottage securely when we went out, and it was still locked now when we returned.”
“Ah, that's perfectly simple to answer,” smiled Cain. “You see, I have a key.” He smiled, exposing gleaming white teeth, reaching into his pocket to produce it, holding it before them.
“So why did you lock the door again once you were inside?” asked Bob. Carol was still fuming, but he could see that Cain's possession of the key had rattled her and she wanted answers too.
“To deter intruders,” replied Cain, almost mockingly it seemed. “It would be most remiss of me to permit strangers to enter your home whilst I awaited your return, would it not?” Bob got the impression that Eric Cain took great delight in toying with people and wrong-footing them.
“How did you get your hands on a key to our home?” growled Carol dangerously. Bob twitched nervously. His wife had a ferocious temper and he hoped he wasn't about to see it unleashed.”
“My dear Mrs Cowley,” said Cain in a tone of voice that Carol found incredibly patronising, “I didn't steal it or obtain it by any devious means, if that's what you mean to imply. This key is mine: I inherited it. This cottage used to belong to my great-grandmother. Upon her death, the key and the house were left to her daughter – my grandmother – and thus on down the family line. Regrettably, due to some legal blunder, there was a long delay before the will was read and my grandmother located. In the intervening time, your own grandparents acquired the cottage. My grandmother decided not to dispute the matter. Nor do I. I wish to offer you a very generous price, well above market value, for the return of my family's home.”
“I'm terribly sorry, Mr Cain,” said Bob, spreading his hands apologetically. “Your explanation does make your wish to purchase our home easier to understand. But three generations of my own family have lived here now. I'm afraid it's not for sale.”
“Oh, but I must insist,” said Cain, smiling tightly and fixing Bob with a deadly stare.
“You can get out of here right now, mister, or I'm calling the police!” snapped Carol, flinging the door open. “Go on! Out! We're getting the locks changed and if you ever come round here again, it'll be the worse for you.”
Cain's eyes flared dangerously, but he nodded courteously and walked to the door. Before he left, however, he turned and grinned at Carol. “I'm afraid you are quite mistaken, Mrs Cowley,” he purred. “If I come round here again, it will be very much the worse for you. Good day to you both.” Then he was gone.
Bob and Carol changed the locks as they had said, but after a couple of days, they came to a decision to put the unpleasant episode behind them, and there was no further discussion of Mr Cain and his domineering attitude.
Nevertheless, Bob was very curious about the possible connections between Cain's family history and his own, so he made his excuses to call on an old friend who worked at the Manx Museum, someone who had access to records and documents that went back many generations.
He met his friend, David Johnson, for lunch, and they had a great time reminiscing. But as their respective jobs beckoned them once more, Bob said, “Actually, David, I have to be honest with you, I didn't look you up just on a whim. There's a matter that I hoped you might be able to shed some light on for me.”
“Oh yes?” said his friend. “What's that?”
“Well, I know you have access to the Island's archives and registers. I was just wondering about the history of my cottage. You see, I had always assumed that it had been in my family's hands since it was first built. But I've been contacted by a fellow who claims that his great-grandmother once lived in it. It's just made me rather curious, that's all.”
“I can certainly check for you,” shrugged David. “Do you know the family name?”
“This chap was called Cain,” said Bob, “though I don't know if his ancestor bore the same name. ”
“Okay, I'll look into it for you when I get a moment,” promised David. “I wouldn't expect too much, though, these early records aren't very detailed about the lives and doings of ordinary people.”
“I'll try not to get my hopes up too much,” grinned Bob. “It's silly, I don't know why I'm bothering at all really. Just curious, I guess.”
Two evenings later, Bob received a telephone call from David Johnson. His friend seemed rather excited. “It's a very curious thing, Bob. I was actually able to find out a little history concerning that cottage of yours. The matter was quite a scandal back in its day.”
“Really?” said Bob. “How do you mean?”
“Well, there was indeed a woman named Cain living there at one time: Mary Cain. And would you believe she was a witch?”
“A witch?” echoed Bob in surprise. On the sofa nearby, Carol cast him a curious glance.
“Oh yes, it seems she was denounced as a witch by your own great-grandmother. Claimed she'd put a curse on her vegetable patch. Anyhow, do you know how they used to try witches over here?”
“Why do I get the feeling this isn't going to be pleasant?” asked Bob.
“Pleasant?” echoed David. “Nothing could be further from the truth! There were no ducking stools or such relatively mild devices used on the Island, you know. The accused witch would be taken to the Witches' Hill, not far from St Johns, and led to the top. Here she would be placed inside a spiked barrel, which would then be rolled down the steep slope. If she was still alive when she reached the bottom, it was considered to be proof of witchcraft and she would then be executed.”
“And that's what happened to Mary Cain?” asked Bob.
“You guessed it,” affirmed David.
“Did she survive?”
“Don't be daft, man! There's no power in heaven or earth – witchcraft or otherwise – that could survive an ordeal like that! She died – horribly. But her house was empty as a result. Your great-grandmother simply took it over. She never lived there herself, whether through guilt over a wrongful accusation, or fear of the witch's curse over a right one; I don't suppose we'll ever know. But she passed the cottage to your grandmother, her daughter, and she lived there, then all your folks ever since, right up to and including yourself.”
Bob was silent for a moment. Then he quietly said, “So Cain was actually telling the truth. The cottage was his family's property. My ancestors never even paid for it, they simply took it over and moved in after his great-grandmother was killed. Which happened because my great-grandmother accused her.”
“Technically, I suppose there's an element of truth in that,” confirmed David grudgingly, “but I wouldn't let it worry you, old son. The deeds to the property simply confirm you as owner, they were drawn up long after Mary Cain's time. So her great-grandson has no legal case to make.”
Rob th
ought for a moment. “I don't suspect that will do much to stop him,” he said finally. Nevertheless, he elected to tell his wife a much diluted version of these matters.
City folk don't know what dark is. Oh, they think they do, but for them, dark is a kind of fuzzy, orange-hued dimness, in which they can still plainly see. Street lights, house lights, car headlights: all conspire to take the edge off the night.
Out in the country, dark means a complete absence of light, except for that eerie sheen that descends in spectral shimmers from the moon and stars. But if the sky is overcast, then the night is as black as pitch.
On such a night, whilst Bob and Carol Cowley slept uneasily in their cottage, the windows rattling dully as they were bombarded by the fierce wind, a stealthy figure stood in the shelter of the blackthorn and stared hungrily at the cottage, sensing it even though he couldn't see it.
Eric Cain was wearing a heavy, dark coat, shielding him from the worst ravages of the wind, but this was no ordinary coat. Black crow feathers had been stitched onto it, across the shoulders and along the arms, as if in imitation of a crow's wings. The feathers rustled and flapped as the grasping fingers of the wind tugged at them. But the stitches were strong and the feathers sturdy, their vibration causing a hideous drone that combined with the howl of the wind in an unearthly and menacing fashion.
Cain reached out his hands and seized a length of blackthorn in each one, gripping fiercely until the thorns pierced him and his red blood ran down the pitch dark wood. “I call upon the ancient powers that slumber, the witches and wizards of old, who knew this Island before the weak swarmed over it. Hear me, great-grandmother! Mary Cain! who sleeps here in this black soil! For I am blood of your blood, flesh of your flesh, bone of your bone! Hear me and stir in your slumber! By great Badb, the carrion crow, Mistress of spectres and slaughter, arise! Arise! Wreak revenge upon the accursed family who put you to death and stole this land. Return this house and this valley to your own kin. Then your bones may sleep peacefully, knowing that the line is still strong.”
Cain winced as he unclasped the blackthorn branches, tucking his bloodied palms back under the shelter of his coat and out of the wind's biting cold. “As I said, Cowley,” he hissed, “it will now be very much the worse for you.”
The following morning was still blustery, grey clouds scudding across the sky, admitting only occasional glimpses of bright sunlight. It was a chilly Sunday, and Carol wrapped up warm before leaving the cottage. Bob had nipped to Douglas in his car to fetch some materials to redecorate the bedroom, and while he was gone she had felt the urge to go for a good walk.
How strange, she mused to herself, that they lived in the country, in such a beautiful spot, and yet they so rarely simply went for a walk. If they went out, it was always somewhere else, never just in their own surroundings, outside their own front door. Just for a moment, she shuddered, as if sensing how 'other' this place was, as if it was not a part of the normal everyday world, and this strangeness was what subconsciously impelled them to go elsewhere whenever they ventured out. But she shook the feeling off, felt the fresh wind in her hair once again, and resumed her work, forcing a bright smile on her face and a deliberate spring in her step.
She found herself turning away from the heights, over which the wind blew with such a mournful sound, instead turning down into the valley. An interesting thicket of blackthorn stood near the head of a deep gully and she made her way over to this, admiring the starkness of the branches silhouetted against the pale sky.
Carol stopped beside the thicket and stood and stared for several long minutes, as if entranced. The rough, dark bark swayed in the stiffening breeze, moving back and forth, hypnotising her. A dreamy smile upon her face, Carol began to slowly circle the thicket, always facing inward toward the trees, until she stood on the very lip of the gully.
What happened next remained ever uncertain in Carol's memory. One moment she was standing there, lost in a daze: the next, it felt as if one of the roots had encircled her ankle and deliberately tripped her over. With a sickening lurch, she stumbled and began to plummet headlong into the gully.
With a scream, Carol reached out and tried to save herself as she lost her balance. She seized the nearest branches, but wailed in horror as they snapped and separated from the trees. Torn free, they lashed about. She could swear they were deliberately wrapping themselves around her. Thorns pricked her, piercing her flesh. Then a mighty gust of wind came hurtling down the valley. She missed her step and lost her balance once more, tumbling head over heels into the gully, flesh-ripping thorns tangled all around her like a close-fitting cage.
She rolled down the hill, gathering speed, thudding sickeningly over roots and rocks, the thorns tearing at her as they lashed around her. A trail of blood marked her route down the steep slope. Fortunately for her, the fall was not a long one, the ground soon levelling out at the base of the gully. She rolled to a halt with a final sickening lurch as her head struck a half buried stone.
And there she lay at the bottom of the slope, tangled in thorns, bruised and bleeding, until Bob arrived home an hour later.
Bob sat in front of the fire, nursing a mug of tea. David Johnson had made the tea for him, and David had also lit the fire. If he hadn't, Bob would simply have been sitting there staring at the cold ashes in the grate.
“How could an accident like that possibly happen?” Bob whispered at last. “Carol was always so careful, she always took a firm stick with her when we went walking.”
“Well, she didn't this time,” said David gruffly. “And that's not all that's strange: she managed to get herself wrapped right around with thorns and trip and fall down the gully all at the same time.”
“And now she's in hospital with concussion, a broken arm, bruises and cuts from head to toe, and she can't recall a thing about it,” sighed Bob.
“Doesn't it strike you as strange, Bob?” demanded David. “Anybody can have an accident, but Carol was such a careful person and the circumstances of this one are so extraordinary. Besides, doesn't this sound familiar to you?”
“I don't know what you mean,” said Bob. “Should it?”
“We were talking of something very similar to this just a few days ago,” David reminded him. “A woman being rolled down a hill in spikes. Remember?”
Bob stared at David, not believing what the other man had the audacity to suggest. “Don't be ridiculous!” he exploded at last. “Carol is no witch! Besides, that's all rot and superstition in any case. It's one thing for a bunch of cruel or misguided witch hunters to put a woman in a spiked barrel and roll her down a hill, but there's no such person here. Or are you suggesting that Carol did it to herself?”
“Not in the least,” said David placatingly. “I'm just pointing out that it's a rather remarkable coincidence and there may be other forces at work here.”
“Other forces?” scoffed Bob. “What? You mean the supernatural?”
“Why not?” insisted David. “I've seen more than enough things over the years to convince me that there's more to life than nuts and bolts. Do you remember Alan Wilde from school?”
“Of course I do,” said Bob. “He died just a couple of years after we finished school. He was only twenty one.”
“I saw him six months after he died,” said David compellingly. “I was walking along Athol Street in Douglas during my lunch hour, when I saw him coming towards me, walking along the pavement. I said, 'Afternoon Alan' to him, and he nodded to me and said, 'All right, David'.” He shuddered with the recollection. “It was only half an hour later that my memory broke through a kind of protective mental shell that was preventing me from recalling that Alan had died. When it sank in and I suddenly realised what had happened, I went weak with shock. I had seen him and spoken to him, as real and solid as you are now. I've never been able to decide whether the encounter threw me into a strange state of consciousness for a while, preventing me from taking fright and remembering he was dead, or whether I was already in a stran
ge state of mind, which is what allowed me to perceive the phenomenon. But it happened, that much I do know.”
“A hallucination,” suggested Bob, “or a case of mistaken identity, it was someone who looked similar.”
“It was him,” said David in a voice that brooked no argument.
Bob looked into his friend's eyes and shut up. After a moment, he said, “So you're suggesting a ghost wrapped my wife in thorns and threw her down the slope?”
“Not necessarily,” shrugged David. “I don't know. I just think it's important we don't lose sight of how strange this is. And remember the veiled warnings you said Eric Cain made when he left.”
“A curse, then?” asked Bob. “You're suggesting Cain has cursed us?”
“Perhaps,” said David. “Maybe he takes after his great-grandmother? I don't know, though I do believe that such things can be done. I'm just saying we should keep an open mind, Bob. It may also be significant that blackthorn is also a wood that was favoured by black magicians for their evil works. It is said to exert a strong power of coercion, a controlling influence.”
Bob found the idea of a curse, which had seemed ludicrous at first, gaining increased weight in his mind as the next few evenings passed. He initially tried to shrug off his misgivings as weird imaginings, but by the third night after David's visit, he was thanking his lucky stars that Carol was still in hospital, away from the sense of fear that had settled over the house.
The Eldritch Isle Page 7