The flames rising higher. Carole afraid for a moment. Realising, though she can't see it, that she is surrounded by forestry for miles in every direction. Oh God! The cottage! Fetching a bucket of water in case of emergency, but there is no need. The flames die down.
Back inside. Into the bedroom. Smelling of smoke now. That's a pleasant change, but she closes the window. The bed comes apart quickly once she has turned it onto its side. Breaking the thin pieces of timber holding it together.
The bedroom door slamming behind her. As if to stop her taking anything else out of the room. She's not having that! Dragging out one half of the bed. Then the other.
Dragging them outside and dropping them onto the fire. She's engulfed in the smoke. Tears rolling down Carole's face. Not from the smoke. Good tears. Tears of freedom. Shaking off the ghosts in that room. Making the place hers.
She goes back inside her cottage. Back to the bedroom. Standing in front of the mirror. That wardrobe is too heavy to move. She looks at herself in the mirror. Face blackened by the smoke. Covered in dirt. She wedges the wardrobe door open. Hiding the mirror. The only other thing left, a little chest of drawers. She opens the drawers. Old clothes. That smell again. A drawer at a time onto the fire. Not even bothering to go through the contents. Then the frame. All gone. Up in smoke.
Carole watches the flames die. Burning off just about everything the past owner left behind. The smoke dies. She pours the bucket of water on the embers. Carole goes inside her cottage.
In the shower, freezing because the heater is not very good. Washing the day away. The things she's burnt. And Geraint.
She falls naked on her mattress. Crying. Letting the stress out. Head in her pillow. Sammy lying down nearby. Things will look better in the morning. Carole falls asleep.
Bang!!! The front door flies open. Carole wakes with a start. The smell of dog. Not Sammy. Sammy growling and barking wildly in the darkness. The fog drifting into the living room. The bedroom door swinging open.
Carole rushes to the front door to slam it shut, remembering she is naked only when she gets there. The fog still there, as thick as ever. The smell of smoke remains. Night has fallen. What time is it? She shuts the door, locking it. She puts on the light and finds her phone. Just before 3am. What the hell? Sammy still barking wildly.
Wind blowing in from the bedroom. Carole goes to shut the door. A strong breeze coming through. Where's the light switch? Screw it.
Carole walks across the floorboards, bare feet on the dark wood. Solid floorboards but here they creak. Passing the bed on the way to the window. The bed??? She burnt the bed. Didn't she burn the bed? Its not the floorboards creaking now. Something else creaking. Carole pushes the window shut.
Wake up girl! The bed must be a trick of your mind. So what the hell is that noise?
Carole turns around. The wardrobe. The dressing table. The bed. A woman asleep in it. A man standing at the foot of the bed. Not paying any attention to the woman in bed, nor Carole. Looking across the room. Looking at what's creaking.
Ifan. Dead, hanging from a noose. Glazed eyes. Creaking as he swings slowly from side to side.
Carole stands staring in abject fear. Breath steaming in front of her. Shivering with the cold and the fear. She puts her hand over her mouth to stifle a scream.
Ifan's eyes open. Looking directly at Carole. Recognition.
Mr. Phillips' head turns, watching her too.
Carole runs passed the apparitions, out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Breathless. Terrified. There's no key for this room. She stands there holding the door handle. Holding the door closed.
Feeling something turning the knob. Pulling on the door. Trying to wrench it from her grasp.
The sound of movement on the other side of the door. Beep beep! Carole screams.
CHAPTER THIRTY
A Little Prayer
Carole stands outside the cottage. Its a little after first light. She is bagging up what's left of Mr. Phillips' belongings after they have been burnt. Breaking up the burnt remnants of the furniture and mattress with a branch. Smashing up the burnt material. Anger turning to fatigue. Stuffing the remnants into black refuse bags. Putting the bags outside the garden wall. Apparently today in bin day in Cwm Celyn.
All that's left now is just a black patch of ground and some black soot on the garden wall. She throws a bucket of water over the soot. It doesn't come off that easily.
So is the cottage clear of the ghosts after burning everything? After last night obviously not. In fact its worse. Right from Frances' reaction to the photo of the bedroom those months ago, she was half aware something was wrong. Not that she admitted it to herself. Not even with the slamming doors and the 'atmosphere' did she admit there was a 'problem' here.
Now she has seen a second ghost couple, and the man who must be the sea captain in the house. Shortly after she's seen him murder his wife and her lover up in the grove. And the way he looked at her. Hanging there in the noose. Watching her. Recognising her. The creaking of him hanging there. She'd heard that creaking before. And that fucking beeping watch! Before she wouldn't admit something was wrong. Now she has no choice. Carole shivers.
What was it Geraint said? Something like ghosts being dangerous when they see something in you that they recognise? When they can see you, they bring their world into yours?
Who can she talk to about this? Not Geraint. Best avoided. His mother though. At least she's approachable. OK, that's the plan. Down to the shop at opening time. She looks at her phone. Five am. Its at least a couple of hours before the shop opens. Maybe more. This is hardly the centre of civilisation. Life is slow.
Carole goes back into the cottage. She checks that the bedroom door is firmly shut. She hasn't slept. She lies down on her mattress.
Sammy barking. Orange flashing lights. The throb of a heavy engine. Carole wakes up with a start. What the hell is going on? Shouting outside. She rushes to the window. A refuse truck. Loading up the last of her rubbish bags. Roaring off up the road towards the lake. Probably the only place to turn around a truck of that size. What time is it? Just before half past seven. Life goes on. She must go on.
Walking down the road. Yesterday's fog gone. The sun already burning off what mist remains. Sammy trotting beside her. A buzz in her pocket. Her phone. Pete! Oh God!
Carole takes the phone out of her pocket. 'Dad & Mum'. Oh. Another ghost. She never got around to changing the label to the number. Mum. She hasn't phoned her since the night before she travelled down. "Hi Mum".
"Carole? Is that you? Why haven't you phoned? I've been worried sick!"
Ten minutes later the call ends. Time spent putting her mother's mind at rest that everything is going well. Peter and her are renovating the cottage, and yes she can see it later in the summer when its finished. And yes she'll be coming home soon. Job done. And at least she's touched base with the outside world. The real world where there are no ghosts.
Carole walks into the village. A couple of Land Rovers have driven passed her on their way down from the mountain. Now a school bus is picking up a dozen school children from outside the shop up ahead. Is that Geraint? Oh God, he still has his exams!
Carole hangs back until the bus has gone, then walks along the road lined with emptied bins. A couple of cars driving off. All leaving Capel Celyn. Leaving it to its ghosts and the haunted girl on the Main Street.
Carole stops at the shop doorway. Looking through to see Mrs. Jones buzzing around. Carole goes inside.
"Carole bach! How are you settling in? Has Geraint done something useful up there at Pantyfedwen?" Mrs Jones is all smiles.
"Yes, thanks very much. He’s a nice boy. Very intelligent".
"If he was a few years older maybe?" Mrs Jones winks.
Carole smiles awkwardly. Oh God this is difficult enough. "I need to ask you a bit of a strange question. Geraint mentioned you may know something about... Ghosts".
Mrs Jones goes
pale. "Ghosts at Pantyfedwen? Oh no... Carole bach. I’m sorry! I should never have mentioned that place to you". She puts her hand over her mouth. Trying to regroup. Its all her fault. Carole is such a nice girl. Dai's daughter for God's sake. She was only trying to help her. If Phillips had died a natural death well, things would be different. Oh God no. Now there's more trouble.
"You believe me?"
Think woman. Say something. Something to placate her. "This whole valley is full of ghosts. There was a real community up on the mountains before the forestry was planted".
"I know about the farms in the woods. I've been to Nant y... Cadno?"
What the hell is she on about? Nant y Cadno? What about Pantyfedwen? There's always been trouble at Pantyfedwen. "What's happened Carole bach?"
"I've seen the sailor and his wife".
Mrs Jones puts her hand over her mouth again. Oh my God! Oh my God!
"And a young couple who lived there too".
Oh Jesus wept! And she thought that Carole was a level headed girl. Living there in London. Surely she'd put up with no nonsense? "Oh good God Carole, you’ve seen them?" She is Dai's daughter after all. He saw things. Damn she never considered that. How stupid is she getting in her old age?
"I think its worse. I think I was, I am... Affected by the woman. The sailor's wife".
The blood which has drained from Mrs. Jones' face is followed by the blood from her mind too. She's speechless. How could this be happening? Carole hasn't been there more than a few days! People still told stories about that couple when she was a child. He devoutly religious, but a drunk. Going off to sea. She becoming the local wise woman. Old magic. Misunderstood, no, reviled back then. More accepted now, at least by the English who move in here. But she herself was always in two minds about it. Natural magic is one thing. Dark magic is another. A dangerous thing. Dangerous things make people dangerous. "Affected? Possessed?"
"I think so..."
She has to protect Carole from this woman. The witch of Pantyfedwen. "Ghosts are usually sad people who can’t move on when they die. Sometimes they are nasty people. Nasty people make nasty ghosts Carole. But all they need is a little help to move on. Don't worry, ghosts never hurt anyone". Well not in a physical sense anyway. She thinks about Phillips. Was he always a nasty piece of work or did something make him that way? Way back before she knew him, was he ever a nice man?
"Don't I need a priest?"
"No, a blessing maybe. Move the woman on. Exorcising, that’s more Church and Catholic. Demons and whatnot. A different thing entirely. These ghosts are chapel people. Puritanical even. A priest will mean nothing to them. No, they just need help to move on. They need to be put to rest. Prayers are enough. If you’re willing I could come up there. Say a few words. It’s the least I could do". Indeed it is. Time to put things right. Her fault, her place to right the fault.
"If you think it will help".
"I’ll take you back up to Pantyfedwen right now. Half a mo. I'll fetch my Bible". Mrs. Jones pops behind the counter and into the house.
TP, Patricia and Frances looking at Peter's computer screen in his office. The IT guy opening up yet another email.
Patricia points angrily. "Yes, this one".
The Sent Email opens. "Why do you pursue me? You are banished from my house. As the Lord says, 'She is now in the streets, now in the squares, And lurks by every corner.' Die the death of a sodomite you whore".
TP takes a sharp intake of breath. "OK Patricia, come with me. Let's discuss what can be done". TP ushers Patricia out of the office. He whispers to Frances. "Contact his GP. Send a couple of the lads around to his flat". TP heads out.
Frances takes a deep breath. "I think we should call the police". But TP is gone. The IT man is preparing to close the account. "Wait a minute. Would you open that one please?" An email to Carole's work email.
"Witch. You cannot hide your adultery from me. Read your Bible. Deuteronomy teaches, 'If a man be found lying with a woman married to an husband, then they shall both of them die, both the man that lay with the woman, and the woman'".
Frances swallows hard.
Mrs Jones' little red Japanese car is parked up outside Pantyfedwen. The breeze whispering this morning. Not hissing. Calm.
A calm inside the cottage. Mrs Jones stands at the centre of the living room. Bible in hand. Eyes closed. She is finishing a prayer in Welsh. "Yn Enw’r Tad. Amen".
"Amen". Carole stands there. As if expecting something to happen. Another gust of wind slamming doors as the ghosts leave or something. She opens her eyes. "Mrs Jones, do you think this prayer will have ended my problem here?"
Mrs Jones nods, smiling. "There’s only the slightest veil between the world of the living and the world of the dead. You could say history is actually alive all around us and constantly repeating itself. Her spirit should be at rest now. She shouldn’t bother you again".
"I feel I’ve shaken her off since I saw her being murdered".
Mrs Jones still feeling as guilty for all this. But glad she has been able to put it to rest. "That must have been awful Carole. But you felt that she did not have any power over you after that?"
Carole nods. "I feel like myself again".
"Good. I'm so glad that’s over and done with. I hadn't thought. Your father, bless him, he would see some things when he was a boy".
"He did. Up to the end. He told me he saw a... a doily?"
Oh God no. "A toili? A ghostly funeral?"
"Yes. By the lake. The day he died".
Is she doing the right thing, letting Dai's girl think that she's safe from ghosts? She is never going to be safe from ghosts, just like her father was always troubled. Time to give advice. "You should be alright now, but please, you need to be careful Carole bach. Ghosts may haunt a place, but really they need people to haunt. So they are drawn to people like you. If they can see you behaving in a way they the ghost recognises, the ghosts get confused. They think they are you. That is what has happened to you, poor dab".
She hadn't expected that. A warning. What she was after was closure. An end to this. "So ghosts can travel around with people? They could follow me?"
"If the people they are haunting travel, I expect so"
"So ghosts have free will?"
"No. They haunt. What they are doing is replaying their lives over and over. They are hurting themselves. But they could end up hurting you in the process". Oh the soothing words are not coming out as she planned. Time to wrap this all up. "Make sure that she's gone. If you find a relic of this woman, throw it out or better burn it. Photographs especially. Throw out anything to do with these people. Clear the house".
Mrs Jones looks around. The living room now cleared. The kitchen tidy, though in need of repainting. The bedroom. The wardrobe and mirror. Otherwise clear. "I'll send Geraint up a little later to move this wardrobe out for you. Old mirrors are not a good thing to keep".
"No need, I'll manage".
"No you won't Carole bach. That thing is really heavy" She returns to the living room. "Carole, where did you get this?" Alarm in her voice.
Carole draws her eyes from the empty bedroom. Mrs Jones is holding the poppet.
"I found it here. It’s nice to know there were children here".
"There were never children in Pantyfedwen Carole. And this isn’t a child’s doll. In years gone by women up here in the hills who used to make these. Its called a poppet in English. They were a charm. Magic if you will. Used to bring people home safely from the sea or to make people fall in love with them".
"Or to hurt people. Like voodoo?" Why has she been so obsessed with that thing. It looks ugly and frightening in Mrs. Jones' hands, where it was warm, sexy in her hands.
"I don’t think so. But its a traditional magic thing. There’s still witchcraft in these hills. In the nineteenth century the church and government tried to kill the old beliefs and the Welsh language. But they did neither".
"Is it val
uable?"
"You should throw it out". Mrs Jones walks for the door. She crosses the garden and crosses the road trying not to look into this thing's deep black eyes. Trying not to notice how soft and warm the poppet is. How the hair wraps itself around her fingers. She closes her eyes, mutters a prayer and throws the poppet into the woods.
She re-enters the cottage looking relieved. She picks up her Bible. "I'll send Geraint up here to help you this afternoon when he comes back from school".
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Regression/Possession
Semi darkness. Daylight fighting its way through the blinds on the windows. Not enough to stir him. He's still deeply asleep on the couch holding something tightly to his bare chest.
The place probably smells like it did some forty years ago when it was a squat. Funky. In the original sense of the word. Sweaty. Airless. Bad. But now it probably smells worse.
A buzz. He stirs. Another buzz. What the hell? A third long, continuous buzz. Peter opens his eyes. He sits up with difficulty, retching a bit. The object he has been holding tightly to his chest falls to the floor. A Bible.
The buzzing ends. Peter taps his iPad to check the time. Mid morning. Who the hell is that mid morning on a work day? He picks up the Bible and reopens it to The Old Testament. The good part. The guidance to deal with the shit life throws at you. Like that bitch of a... Not even a wife. He lies back down on the couch. The room stops spinning. What is he going to do about her? Follow the instructions within.
Another long loud buzz. Peter staggers to his feet, over to the door and the entry camera screen. Two of the office juniors. What the hell are they doing here? How do they know where he lives? Peter unlocks the door and heads out onto the landing, staggering dangerously down the stairs, limping to the front door. He throws it open. The two office juniors step back down the steps onto the pavement in alarm.
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