The Garden of Bewitchment

by Catherine Cavendish

  Matthew sat opposite Evelyn, and the professor came to sit between them on a chair that, judging by its battered state, was clearly his favorite. He leaned forward, tapped his pipe in an ashtray and took a tobacco pouch out of his pocket. He proceeded to fill his pipe, talking all the while.

  “Now this most interesting volume Matthew has brought for me to look at is highly intriguing. I studied demonology in my youth, and, as a result, I was aware such works existed, but never, until a couple of days ago, did I ever imagine I would be able to hold one of my own, and it’s heavy, isn’t it? By the heavens. Quite a weight. Of course the leather binding conceals a layer of lead, which doesn’t help matters. You didn’t know that?”

  Matthew and Evelyn shook their heads.

  “Oh, yes, indeed. Lead. Also copper, silver, tin and gold mixed in with it. All highly significant. In ancient hooniyan tradition, these metals were frequently made into nails to be driven into a wax image of a person destined to be harmed in some way.”

  “Hooniyan?” Evelyn asked. “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Not surprising really. Hooniyan tradition hails from Ceylon. Of course, this book isn’t from there. Oh, no. Although it is certainly well traveled. In addition to the Latin text, it seems to have Sumerian, Egyptian, Hindu and Jewish roots, and those are only the origins and influences I have encountered thus far. I still have much to read and discover. I do hope you will allow me to keep the book while I do so.”

  “Of course, Professor. We are anxious to know what has been causing the phenomena I outlined to you on my previous visit. It’s most important to us, and to Miss Wainwright’s sister.”

  The professor looked at Evelyn curiously. “Ah, yes, your sister. Miss Claire Wainwright, I believe?”

  “Yes,” said Evelyn, “she has also been affected by this book and the toy.”

  “The Garden of Bewitchment,” the professor said. “Which is also laid out in this book. At least, the instructions on how to create it are given.”

  “Really?” Evelyn exclaimed.

  “Most assuredly. Everything anyone could want to know about creating their own devil’s garden is in here.” He reached behind him and tapped the book, which lay on an untidy desk, in a space he had created between unruly piles of papers. “In fact this entire book is centered on that very phenomenon. Essentially this is a handbook into the process of summoning demons and creating your own version of the anti–Garden of Eden. Or, shall we say, the Garden of Eden after the serpent had persuaded Eve to entice Adam into eating the apple.”

  Evelyn exhaled. “We believe he had some strange ideas and was a practitioner of the occult, but how would Squire Monkton acquire such a book?”

  “Ah, now there’s the interesting thing. The book chooses who it possesses.”

  “Who it possesses?” Matthew’s words echoed Evelyn’s thoughts.

  “Indeed,” the professor said, lighting his pipe. He puffed for a moment or two. “You see, this book relies on people for its survival. You could say it feeds off them. Don’t ask me how it works, who wrote it or what its origins are. I couldn’t possibly hazard a guess. Nor could I tell you if human hands created it, although I suspect not. In order for this book to survive, it must be in the possession of someone vulnerable. Someone who possibly has something to hide or has a secret in their past they would rather remain buried. Possibly even someone with a mental condition of some kind.”

  “Do we know if Squire Monkton fell into any of those categories, Matthew?” Evelyn asked.

  “I wouldn’t know. My cousin might, I suppose, but he didn’t mention anything, apart from an increasing tendency towards eccentricity. I could ask him, but I rather think our own experiences outweigh Gerald’s knowledge of him by now.”

  The professor laid his pipe in the ashtray next to him. “It is of little importance to us anyway. Whatever the squire may have been or may not have been, the fact is the book found him and, in coming into his possession, proceeded to possess him.”

  “Which could well explain his foray into the dark arts,” Matthew said. “But the Garden also belonged to my uncle. He certainly became difficult, even violent, towards the end of his life and obsessed with it, but I never heard anything about this book, and my cousin never mentioned it, so I suppose it unlikely to have featured in my aunt’s diaries. As we know, he has been through them recently.”

  “Oh, your uncle certainly would have had it,” the professor said. “He couldn’t have built the Garden without it.”

  “I managed to build it without,” Matthew said.

  “As you told me when we first met, but I can assure you the book was there, in the same room as you when you did it. You felt its power. It even trapped you until you escaped from it. Its hold wasn’t strong enough over you then.”

  “But what about my sister’s experiences?” Evelyn asked. “We never saw the book in her room when the Garden appeared.”

  “Simply because you didn’t see it means nothing, Miss Wainwright. It can manifest itself at will – or hide in plain sight.”

  “And then the strange man I saw—”

  “The one with the hooked nose? Matthew told me about your strange encounter. Apparently this character fills two – even three – descriptions, at least partially. Matthew’s Uncle Mortimer, Squire Monkton and, quite probably, the late Branwell Brontë. None of whom were related and, in life at least, did not resemble each other sufficiently to be mistaken for one another. Your sister is, I believe, quite besotted with the late Mr. Brontë.”

  Evelyn glanced at Matthew, feeling momentarily that he had betrayed her confidence, but then reminded herself there was little point in hiding anything from the one person who might actually be able to help them. “What can we do?” she asked. “With every passing day, we seem to be drawn deeper into a mire.”

  “I understand your fears, Miss Wainwright, and I wish I could answer all your questions here and now, but I need a little more time to complete my studies.”

  “We should destroy the book,” Matthew said.

  “On no account must you do anything of the sort.” The force of the professor’s words startled Evelyn. Until that moment he had been calm, collected, talking about this evil manifestation as if discussing the price of a loaf of bread. But now… His face had turned quite red.

  “If you were to do that, you can be sure the book would release all its evil out into the world. Scatter it like leaves. Who knows what would happen then. At least this way it is contained and limited only to those people currently in possession of – and possessed by – it.”

  “How should we protect ourselves?” Evelyn asked. “As yet neither of us is possessed by the book—”

  “Now you are wrong there, dear lady. One of you most certainly is, and the others are caught up by association.”

  Evelyn became aware of Matthew staring at her. His gaze felt like hot needles pricking her skin. “But which one of us is it?” she said.

  “I’m not sure. All I can say for certain is one of you is not who they appear to be.”

  Evelyn knew it wasn’t her, so it had to be Matthew. All the evidence pointed to it, but she still had to ask. “Are you including Claire, my sister, in your list of suspects?”

  The professor looked at her seriously. His gaze made her feel uncomfortable. “Possibly. There is something…” He shook his head. “No, that couldn’t be possible.”

  Evelyn wanted to shake him. “What couldn’t be possible?”

  “A thought came to me, but it is too ridiculous to utter out loud. Forgive me. The ramblings of an old man.” He smiled.

  “So where do we go from here, Professor?” Matthew asked.

  Was he a little too keen to change the subject? Evelyn’s thoughts drifted back to the small box he had buried and then dug up. A promise to a friend kept him from revealing its contents. Now she was as sure as she c
ould be. He had been lying.

  The professor relit his pipe. Evelyn waited. “My advice to you is to keep away from the house and garden belonging to the late squire. Nothing good will come of you visiting there, and, indeed, you will be putting your lives in danger. Miss Wainwright, I suggest you and your sister stay close to your cottage except where dire necessity forces you to make an excursion. Then, do not go far. When I have made my final conclusions, I will contact you, Matthew. If I may, I believe it would be best if I came to Thornton Wensley. Do you have a spare room I could avail myself of?”

  “Of course, Professor. It would be an honor.”

  “But what of The Garden of Bewitchment?” Evelyn asked. “The miniature one? What if it should appear again?”

  The professor tapped his teeth with his pipe stem. “That is something for which I have no answer but is precisely why I urge you and your sister to stay close to home.”

  His words chilled her blood. Staying close to home might appear to be a good idea, but the Garden had materialized in the cottage in the past, so there was no reason to suppose it couldn’t do so again in the future. They would simply have to be more vigilant. Somehow. “The man I saw…the one Matthew told you about. You said it could be one of three people, but who do you believe it was?”

  “Quite probably any one of them. In fact, there are entities that can take on any number of forms, depending on who they are appearing to at the time.”

  “But why did he appear in the yard behind the cottage?”

  “You invited him there, didn’t you, Miss Wainwright?”

  “No, I didn’t, I—”

  “You called out to him. You might as well have issued an invitation and, if I may say so, did a most foolish thing. Once he has set foot on your premises, he will come again.”

  “Then Claire and I must leave the cottage.”

  “And go where, Miss Wainwright? He will only follow you. No, you have to stay where you are, and when he returns, you must tell him, in no uncertain terms, he is not welcome and must remove himself.”

  “And what of the jewel he showed me?”

  “That too is mentioned in the book. It is part of the ritual outlined there. You were wise not to accept it, for then you would surely have been its next victim. I believe your squire is looking to pass his possession on – if he hasn’t already done so. He will use any means to rid himself of any lingering effects. He wants to be at peace, but to do so he must meet the book’s demands.”

  Matthew shifted in his seat. Evelyn continued. “This raises another question for me. Is my sister’s obsession with Branwell Brontë putting her at risk of serious harm?”

  The professor paused before replying. “Almost certainly. She would do well to reject him as you must reject your ghost. Matthew told me she disappeared and has only a partial recollection of where she went? Such a practice is outlined in the book. Her ghost took her away. He showed her who was in charge. I am oversimplifying a little here, and bear in mind I haven’t finished my study of the book yet, but that is my current belief, although I am aware something doesn’t quite add up. It’s nothing I can discuss yet until I have all the facts.”

  “And when will that be?” Matthew asked.

  “Why, when I have finished translating the book. As you know, it is a thick volume.” As before, his tap on the book’s cover produced a hollow sound.

  “Thank you, Professor,” Evelyn said. “This has been most…enlightening.”

  “Not at all, my dear. I trust in a few days I will have got to the bottom of the mysteries of this amazing work of literature.”

  Matthew shook his hand. “Knowing what you do of its power, are you not even the slightest bit concerned for your own safety? After what you have told us today, I know I wouldn’t want that thing under the same roof as me.”

  “Oh, but you see, I am safe.”

  Something about his tone made Evelyn’s skin prickle. “How can you be so sure?” she asked.

  “I know it doesn’t want me. It could never want me.”

  “But how do you know?”

  “Trust me, my dear. I know this seems strange to you, but it will all make sense in time.”

  “Believe me, Professor, this is no stranger than anything else that has been happening,” Evelyn said.

  * * *

  Back home, the wind howled all through the night, rattling the windows, keeping Evelyn awake. She looked out of her bedroom window in the early hours to see leaves swirling in the gale. Throwing a warm shawl over her shoulders, she drew it tightly around her. Up on the track no one stirred. Evelyn was about to withdraw and go back to bed when something caught her eye.

  Down in the yard. Something moved.

  She hurried down the stairs and into the kitchen. She peered through the window.

  Nothing. Blackness. Still the wind howled.

  She leaped back. A hand, its fingers splayed, pressed against the window. The nails long and ragged. A man’s hand. Bluish gray.

  Evelyn cowered at the back of the kitchen.

  Thumping. On the back door. The hand had gone. Whoever owned it was banging. Determined to get in.

  Claire appeared in the doorway. “What is it, Ev? Who’s out there?”

  Evelyn clung to her sister. “I don’t know, but I have a horrible feeling it’s Squire Monkton.” More banging. The wind howled stronger, and somewhere dogs were baying. Dogs? Or wolves?

  It was her fault. She had called out to him. The professor said so. Now she must tell him to go. “Stay there, Claire.”

  Evelyn swallowed her fear and advanced toward the door.

  Her tongue felt thick and dry as she tried in vain to moisten her lips.

  “Go!” she cried. “You’re not welcome here. Go!”

  The banging ceased. An earsplitting roar rattled the glassware on the shelves.

  “Go, I tell you! Leave this place and do not return.”

  The roars grew louder still until Evelyn’s ears rang and her head ached.

  Then… Silence.

  The sisters waited, not daring to move or speak as the wind died down to a gusty whistle. Sleep was out of the question. They drank tea until a pinkish-gray dawn broke and they finally felt calm enough to go to bed.

  * * *

  Evelyn came downstairs a little after one. Hunger had invaded her dreams and robbed her of any chance of falling back to sleep. She found Claire in the kitchen, sitting at the table, a worried expression on her face. “What’s the matter?”

  Claire shook her head. She put her hands to her face, and tears dripped through her fingers. “I’m so scared, Ev. I don’t know what to do.”

  Evelyn sat down and took one of her hands in hers. “We’re in this together, Claire. However frightening it all seems, you’re not alone. I’m scared too.”

  “But you don’t have this, do you?” Claire’s fingers trembled as she unbuttoned the sleeve of her blouse. She turned her arm over and showed it to Evelyn.

  “My God. What is that?” Evelyn stared in horror at the crisscrossing network of thin red veins running up and down her sister’s arm, each one pulsing as if with life waiting to be born.

  “I don’t know. I woke up with it a couple of hours ago.” Claire’s terrified face demanded a response, but, for the life of her, Evelyn didn’t have one.

  “Hospital,” she said at last. “We must get you to hospital.”

  Claire shook her head vigorously, buttoning up her sleeve again and wincing. “No, I won’t go to hospital. I’ll never come out alive.”

  “Oh, nonsense. This isn’t the Dark Ages. Hospitals are places where people go to recover.”

  “No.”

  “But this isn’t natural, Claire.”

  “Don’t you think I don’t know that? I won’t go to hospital. This isn’t natural any more than The Garden of Bewitchmen
t. Don’t you see? This is supernatural too. It’s all linked to that damned toy.”

  “I don’t doubt it, but it’s a physical manifestation and the doctors might be able to treat it.”

  “And they probably won’t. You don’t know what I’m feeling inside.”

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s as if a thousand voices are all speaking at once. I can’t make anything out. But they are all trying to possess me at the same time. Make me do things they want to do.”

  “What sort of things?”

  With no warning, Claire flew at her sister, snarling, biting, scratching. Evelyn shielded her face with her hands and did her best to fight her off. She fell, and the two of them rolled around the floor. Claire’s hair wound itself around Evelyn’s throat, choking her. She coughed, tugging at the thick mane, which grew ever tighter. Slivers of light danced in front of her eyes. She was slipping away, even as she clawed the air, desperate to fend off the screaming creature her sister had become.

  A sharp knock at the front door.

  It seemed to startle Claire back to reality. Her horrified face blanched as she realized what she had done. Then her eyes darkened and the beast returned within her. She dragged her hair off Evelyn’s throat, gave her sister one last vicious punch in her stomach, jumped off her with the agility of a cat, raced up the stairs and slammed her door.

  Another knock rattled the door. Evelyn struggled up, her throat burning. She staggered to the door.

  Matthew took one look at her and caught her as she fell, dizziness overwhelming her.

  “Whatever’s happened?”

  “Claire… She tried…to kill me.”

  Matthew half carried her inside and laid her on the settee. “Is she up there?” He pointed to the stairs.

  “Yes.”

  He charged up the stairs. Evelyn heard him calling Claire’s name. Presently he was back down. “She’s not there.”

  Evelyn tried to sit up, but another wave of dizziness stopped her. She struggled to speak. “Not possible. She went up there when you knocked at the door. She can’t have got out.”