Spook's Secret wc-3

by Joseph Delaney

  The floorboards were scattered with feathers, splattered with blood and littered with fragments of dead birds. It was as if a fox had got into a chicken coop. There were wings, legs, heads, and hundreds and hundreds of feathers. Feathers falling through the air, swirling around my head, stirred by the chill breeze that was blowing through the skylight.

  When I saw something much larger, I wasn't surprised. But the sight of it chilled me to the bone. Crouching in the corner, close to the writing desk, was the feral lamia, eyes closed, the top lids thick and heavy. Her body seemed smaller somehow but her face looked far larger than the last time I'd glimpsed it. It was no longer gaunt but pale and bloated, the cheeks almost two pouches. As I watched, the mouth opened slightly and a trickle of blood ran down her chin and began to drip onto the floorboards. She licked her lips, opened her eyes and looked up at me as if she had all the time in the world.

  She'd been feeding. Feeding on the birds. She'd opened the skylight and then summoned the birds to her clawed, clutching hands, compelling them to fly to where she was waiting. Then, one by one, she'd begun to drink their blood, keeping the ones still alive close by with a spell of compulsion. They had wings but had lost the will to fly away.

  I'd no wings, though I did have legs. But my legs wouldn't obey me and I stood, rooted to the spot with fear. She came towards me very slowly. Maybe it was because she was heavy, being so bloated with blood. Maybe she felt there was no hurry.

  Had she scurried across the floor towards me, it would have been over. I'd never have left that attic. But she moved slowly. Very slowly. And the horror of watching her approach was enough to break the spell. Suddenly I was free. I could move. Move faster than I'd ever moved before.

  I had no thought of using either my chain or staff. My legs acted quicker than I could think. As the lamia crawled across the floorboards, I turned and ran. And as I ran, there was a flutter of wings from behind: my escape had released the waiting birds from the spell. Terrified, my heart hammering, I bounded down the stairs, making enough noise to wake the dead. But I didn't care. I just had to get outside and away from the lamia. Nothing else mattered. All my courage had gone.

  But someone was waiting for me in the shadows at the foot of the stairs.

  Meg.

  Why hadn't I turned off the stairway into the back bedroom? I should have concentrated. Thought carefully.

  Instead I'd panicked and missed my chance to escape. The feral lamia was too bloated with blood to move quickly. I'd have been able to open the window, position the plank and crawl across it to safety. And now my heavy feet thumping down the stairs had

  awakened Meg.

  She was there, between me and the front door. While somewhere behind me, probably already descending the stairs, was the feral lamia. Meg looked up at me, her pretty face widening into a smile. There was enough light to see that it wasn't a friendly smile. Suddenly she leaned towards me and sniffed loudly three times.

  'I once said I wouldn't give you to my sister,' she said. 'But that's all changed now. I know what you've done. There's a price to pay for that. A blood price!'

  I didn't answer because I was already retreating slowly up the stairs. I was still gripping the stub of candle so I thrust it into my breeches pocket. That done, I transferred my staff to my right hand and pulled out the silver chain from the left pocket of my sheepskin jacket.

  Meg must have seen the chain or sensed it, because suddenly she ran up the stairs directly at me, her hands held before her as if she wanted to rip out my eyes. I panicked, took quick aim and hurled the chain directly at her. It was a wild shot and it missed her head completely. But fortunately for me, it fell against her left shoulder and side. At its touch, she screamed out in agony and fell back against the wall.

  Seeing my chance, I ran past her and reached the foot of the stairs before turning to face her. At least now I didn't have the threat of her sister at my back. The chain was still on the steps above. All I had now was my staff of rowan wood. It was the most powerful wood of all to use against a witch. But Meg wasn't from the County; she was a lamia witch from a foreign land. Would it be effective against her?

  Meg regained her balance and turned to face me. 'The touch of silver is agony to me, boy,' she said, her face twisted with fury. 'How would you like to feel pain like that?'

  She took a step down, and as she did so, quite deliberately trailed the back of her left hand along the wall at her side. As I watched, she scraped her nails hard against the plaster, gouging into it deeply. The plaster was old and very hard. She was showing me what her nails could do to my flesh. As Meg took another step, I readied the staff, pointing it upwards, ready to jab at her head and shoulders.

  But I was trLinking now. Concentrating. And when she attacked, rushing down the steps towards me, I brought the staff quickly downwards, thrusting it at her feet. Her eyes widened as she saw what I was trying to do, but her momentum was too great: her legs became tangled in the staff and she fell headlong down the stairs. The staff was torn from my hands, but now I had a chance to retrieve the chain and I leaped over her and ran back up the steps.

  I picked up the chain, twisted it around my left wrist and prepared to throw it again. This time I was determined not to miss.

  She smiled at me, her face full of mockery. 'You've missed once already. It's not as easy as throwing at that post in Gregory's garden, is it? Are your hands sweating, boy? Are they starting to shake? You'll only get one more chance. And then you'll be mine ...'

  I knew that she was just trying to undermine my confidence and make it more likely that I'd miss. So I took a deep breath and remembered my training. Nine times out of ten, I could hit the post. And I'd never missed twice in a row. Only fear could stop me now. Only doubt. So I took a deep breath and concentrated. As Meg came to her feet, I took careful aim.

  I cracked the chain in the air like a whip before hurling it straight at the witch. It fell in a perfect widdershins spiral to enclose her head and body. She gave a shriek, but it was cut off suddenly as the silver chain tightened against her mouth and she fell heavily to the floor.

  Cautiously I walked down the steps and looked at her closely. To my relief, she was bound fast. I looked into her eyes and saw the pain there. But although the silver chain was hurting her, there was defiance in her eyes too. Suddenly her expression changed and I realized that she was looking beyond me, back up the stairs. At the same time I heard a scuttling and spun round to see Marcia, the feral lamia, moving down the steps towards me.

  Once again the fact that she had already drunk her fill of blood saved me. She was still bloated and sluggish. Otherwise she'd have attacked before I'd even had a chance to blink. So I snatched up my rowan staff and moved up the stairs to meet her. Hatred burned from her heavy-lidded eyes, and the four thin limbs beneath her body tensed, ready to spring forward. At first I didn't have time to be afraid and jabbed towards her bloated face with my staff. She couldn't stand the touch of rowan wood and gasped with pain as my third jab struck her just below the left eye. She hissed angrily and began to retreat backwards, her long greasy black hair brushing the stairs on either side of her to leave a slimy damp trail.

  I don't know how long I struggled with her. Time seemed to stand still. Sweat was running from my brow into my eyes and I was breathing hard, my heart hammering from both exertion and fear. I knew that at any moment she might slip beneath my guard or that I might stumble - in which case she'd have been on me in an instant, her sharp teeth sinking into my legs. But at last I backed her up to the attic door, then jabbed again frantically to drive her inside. That done, I slammed the door hard and locked it, using my key. I knew the door wouldn't stop her for long, and as I descended the stairs, I heard her claws already beginning to rip at the wooden door. It was time to escape. I'd follow the others to Andrew's shop. When the Spook had recovered we'd be able to return and sort things out.

  But when I opened the front door, a blizzard was raging outside, snow blasting straight int
o my face. I might find my way to the edge of the clough, but to go beyond that would be madness. Even if I got down off the moor safely, I could freeze to death trying to find Adlington. Quickly I closed the door. There was just one other option left.

  Meg was no bigger than I was and wasn't very heavy. So I decided to take her down into the cellar and put her in the pit. That done, I could lock myself behind the gate with her and be relatively safe from the feral lamia. Or at least for a while. Even the gate wouldn't stop Marcia for ever.

  However, there was the other witch, Bessy Hill, to worry about. So I left Meg at the top of the cellar steps and had a quick search for the Spook's bag. I found it at last in the kitchen and quickly helped myself to pocketfuls of salt and iron. That done, I carried Meg down to the cellar, holding her across my right shoulder by her legs. In my left hand I carried both my staff and a candle. It took a long time to get her down there and I was careful to lock the gate behind me. Once again I kept well away from Bessy Hill, who was still snoring on the stairs.

  After all that had happened, I felt like dragging Meg by the feet and letting her head bounce on every step. But I didn't. She was probably suffering a lot already because the silver chain was binding her tightly. And in any case, despite everything, the Spook would want her treated as well as possible. So I was careful with Meg.

  But when I eased her over the edge of the pit, I couldn't resist saying what I did.

  'Dream about your garden!' I told her, making the tone of my voice as sarcastic as possible. Then I left her and, clutching my stub of candle, went back up the steps. Now it was time to deal with the other witch, Bessy Hill. I must have woken her up on my way down because now she was snuffling and spitting her way slowly up towards the gate again. I reached into my breeches pockets and pulled out a handful of salt and a handful of iron. But I didn't throw them at her; about three steps above her, I scattered a line of salt from wall to wall, then sprinkled the iron on top of it. After that, I moved along the step and carefully mixed them together to form a barrier that the witch would be unable to cross.

  Finally I walked up to the gate and sat about three steps below it, just in case the feral lamia came down and tried to reach me through the bars.

  I sat there and watched the candle burn lower and lower. Long before it threatened to go out, I was feeling sorry for what I'd said to Meg. My dad wouldn't have liked me being sarcastic like that. He'd brought me up better than that. Meg couldn't be all bad. The Spook loved her and she'd loved him once. And how was he going to feel when he saw that I'd put her in the pit? That I'd done something he'd never been able to face doing himself?

  After a while the candle finally guttered out and I was left in the dark. There were faint whispers and scratching sounds from the cellar far below where the dead witches were stirring and, every so often, the sound of the feeble live witch, sniffing and snuffling in frustration, unable to cross the barrier of salt and iron.

  I'd almost dozed off when the feral lamia arrived suddenly, having finally clawed her way through the attic door. My night vision is good, but it was really dark on the cellar steps and all I heard was the rush of her legs scuttling forward and then a bang as a dark shape hurled itself at the gate and started to rasp at the metal. My heart lurched into my mouth. It sounded like she was ravenous again already so I picked up my rowan staff and desperately jabbed at her through the bars.

  At first it made no difference to her frenzy, and I heard the grille groan as the metal bent and yielded. But then I got lucky. I must have jabbed her in a sensitive spot, probably her eye, because she screamed shrilly and fell back from the gate, whimpering her way back up the steps.

  When the blizzard stopped and the Spook was strong enough, he'd come back to the house to sort things out -1 was sure of that. What I didn't know was when. It would be a long afternoon and a longer night after that. I might even have to spend days there on the stairs. I wasn't sure how many times Marcia would assault the gate.

  Twice more she attacked, and after I'd driven her away for the third time she retreated right back up the steps and out of sight. I wondered if she'd gone back up into the house. Maybe she'd go hunting for rats or mice. After a while I had to fight to keep awake. I couldn't afford to sleep because the gate was already weakened. If I wasn't ready to fend her off, it wouldn't take her long to force her way through.

  I was in serious trouble. If only I hadn't gone back for the grimoire, I'd have been safe and sound with the Spook and Alice at Andrew's house.

  Home Truths

  It was uncomfortable on the steps and very cold. After a while, according to my calculations, night turned to day again. I was hungry, and my mouth was dry with thirst.

  How long would I have to spend down there? How long before the Spook came? What if my master hadn't recovered properly and was too ill to come? Then I began to worry about Alice. What if she came back to the house looking for me? She would think the lamia was still trapped in the cellar. She didn't know that it had been in the attic; that it was now loose in the house.

  At last I heard noises from somewhere above. Not scuttling legs but the welcome murmur of human voices and the thump of boots clumping downwards and then the sound of something heavy being dragged down the steps. Candlelight flickered round the corner and I came to my feet.

  'Well, Andrew! Looks like you won't be needed after all,' said a voice that I immediately recognized.

  The Spook walked up to the gate. He was dragging the feral lamia behind him, bound tightly in a silver chain. At his side was Andrew, who'd accompanied him down to pick the lock.

  'Well, lad, don't stand there gawping,' said the Spook. 'Open the gate and let us in.'

  Quickly I did as I was told. I wanted to tell the Spook what I'd done to Meg, but when I opened my mouth to speak, he shook his head and put a hand on my shoulder.

  'First things first, lad,' he said, his voice kind and understanding, as if he knew exactly what I'd done. 'It's been hard for all of us and we've a lot to talk through. But the time for that is later. First there's work to be done ...'

  That said, with Andrew in the lead holding the candle aloft, we set off down the steps. As we approached the live witch, Andrew halted and the candle started to quiver in his hand.

  'Andrew, give the candle to the lad,' said the Spook. 'It's best if you go up top and wait at the door for the mason and smith to arrive. Then you can tell them we're down here.'

  With a sigh of relief, Andrew handed the candle to me, and after nodding in the Spook's direction, walked back up the steps. We continued down until we reached the cellar, with its low ceiling thickly hung with cobwebs. The Spook led the way directly to the feral lamia's pit, where the bars were yawning wide, leaving plenty of space to drop her into the darkness - and the Spook wasted no time in preparing to do just that.

  'Staff at the ready, lad!' he commanded.

  So I stepped close to his side, the candle in my right hand to illuminate the lamia and the pit, my rowan staff in my left hand positioned to jab downwards.

  The Spook held the lamia over the gaping bars and, with a sudden jerk, twisted the silver chain to the right, giving it a flick. It unravelled and, with a shrill cry, the lamia fell into the darkness. Immediately the Spook knelt beside the pit and began to fasten the silver chain from bar to bar across the top of the opening to make a temporary barrier that the lamia couldn't cross. From the shadows below, the lamia hissed up at us angrily but made no attempt to scuttle upwards; within a few moments the job was done.

  'There, that should hold her fast until the mason and the blacksmith arrive,' my master said, coming to his feet. 'Now let's see how Meg is ...'

  He walked over towards Meg's pit and I followed, carrying the candle. He looked down and shook his head sadly. Meg was lying on her back looking up at us, her eyes wide and angry, but the chain still bound her tightly and she couldn't speak.

  'I'm sorry' I said. 'Really sorry. I was-'

  The Spook held up his hand to silen
ce me. 'Save your words for later, lad. It really hurts me to see this...'

  I heard the choke in the Spook's voice and caught a glimpse of the grief on his face. I looked away quickly. There was a long silence, but at last he gave a deep sigh.

  'What's done is done,' he said sadly, 'but I never thought it would come to this. Not after all these years. Anyway, let's go and attend to the other one ...'

  We went back up the steps until we reached the live witch, Bessy Hill.

  'By the way, that was well thought out, lad!' exclaimed the Spook, indicating the line of salt and iron. 'Good to see you using your initiative.'

  Bessy Hill turned her head slowly to the left and seemed to be trying to speak herself. The Spook shook his head sadly and pointed downwards at her feet.

  'There, lad. You take her right foot, I'll take her left. We'll pull her down slowly. Gently, now! We don't want to bang her head ...'

  We did just that, and it was unpleasant work: Bessy's right foot felt cold, damp and slimy, and as we dragged her downwards she began to snuffle and spit.

  It didn't take long though, and soon she was back in her pit. All it needed now was the bent bars to be replaced and she'd be safe for a long time.

  We didn't speak for a while and I guessed that the Spook was thinking about Meg, but soon there was the distant sound of men's voices and heavy boots.

  'Right, lad, this'll be the smith and the mason. I'd half a mind to ask you to deal with Meg, but if s not right and I won't shirk what has to be done. So you get yourself back up those steps and light a big fire in every downstairs room. You've done well - we'll talk later.'

  On the way up I met the smith and the mason. 'Mr Gregory's at the bottom of the steps,' I told them. They nodded and carried on down. Neither of them looked happy. It was grim work but it had to be done.