by S. B. Hayes
Once the horrors of the dream fell away, my first thought was that I had to see Nat. It couldn’t wait until college tomorrow. I had to look her in the eye and see if she still believed me now she’d had time to think things over. It might prove painful, but it was something that had to be done for my own sanity. I pulled back the duvet and pointed my toes, searching for my slippers, aware how cold the floorboards suddenly felt. I made a gap in the curtains and noticed small pools of condensation on the window ledges. It seemed like ages since this had happened. In winter it was so cold in my bedroom that my breath was sometimes visible, and once there was actually a layer of ice on the inside of the glass. I pulled my thin robe tight around myself, wondering if it was time to dig out my favourite woolly striped dressing gown and thick pyjamas.
It was only 8 a.m., too early to call Nat, and I felt twitchy thinking about the hours ahead and how I could fill them before finding out whether I had any friends left. My previous insecurity seemed to be returning. Before Nat and Hannah, I was always fearful that girls didn’t really want to be my friend and I tried much too hard to be liked. It felt the same now, as though I had to prove myself all over again. I padded down to the kitchen and noticed there were only a couple of spoonfuls of coffee left in the jar, so I made myself a weak cup, waiting for Mum to wake. The kitchen was north facing and never received any light until late afternoon, which made it particularly depressing. I went and sat in the dining room, which had French windows on to the garden, and drank my coffee, deep in thought. My phone beeped and my heart jumped, hoping it might be Nat, but it was only Luke. He must have noticed that my curtains were open.
Don’t bother searching for the witch of Lower Croxton. I already have and there’s nothing on the Net, not even the hint of an urban legend. Told you that old lady was a fruitcake ha ha X
Luke could be such an unbelievable know-it-all. I was annoyed that even without being aware of all that had happened he had correctly anticipated that I would be fixated by the old lady’s words. I sat for a few minutes longer, now consumed by a sinking feeling that the day was going to drag. Merlin was busy with last-minute coursework and Mum was still sleeping so I retreated back upstairs and turned on my computer. Luke thought that he was the only person who was able to do any research and I had the strongest urge to prove him wrong. You didn’t have to be a journalist, I told myself with stubborn optimism.
It seemed sensible to dive right in, and my fingers began to type as if they had a life of their own. ‘Witch of Lower Croxton’ produced nothing specific, as I’d already been warned, so I broadened my search to ‘Witches’, which was short and to the point. Thousands of websites for modern-day witches and pagans popped up and I clicked on a few of them for some light relief, but then told myself not to get sidetracked. I narrowed it down again to ‘Medieval Witches in Britain’ and it was impossible to avoid the grisly descriptions of torture, drowning, hanging, beheading and burning. If a witch confessed to something especially evil then a slow-burning wood might be used to make her suffer even more. After death, iron rivets would be driven into her knees and elbows to stop her from rising from her grave. I drained the dregs from my cup with a strange feeling in my stomach.
Mum had gone downstairs and I tore myself away to join her, feeling completely famished. Breakfast was only two slices of cardboard bread and scrambled eggs, but it was more than welcome.
‘Do you know anything about witch hunting?’ I asked brightly.
She raised her eyebrows and then moved her head from side to side noncommittally. ‘I seem to remember the witch finders used to look for devil’s marks,’ she said slowly, ‘which could be anything – freckles, moles, warts or any unusual blemishes.’
I was still hungry and decided to have some cereal. Luke and I hadn’t eaten since the sandwiches in the village cafe, which was why I felt so empty inside. I cleared my throat importantly, armed with my newfound knowledge. ‘Lots of experts thought the hysteria over witches was the result of a hatred and fear of women … by men.’
Mum nodded enthusiastically. ‘Most of those put to death were female. We were considered more devious and cunning.’
‘Mmm,’ I agreed, ‘but … women pointed the finger at other women too. Your chances of being persecuted were higher if you were old, ugly, poor or lived alone, and lots of accusations of sorcery began as village disputes. Even children would give testimony in court and be treated as credible witnesses.’ I suddenly thought of the old woman’s words and shivered.
‘That’s very interesting, Katy.’ Mum smiled. ‘Is this college work?’
‘Kind of,’ I lied.
‘If you need any help, just ask. I’m fascinated by your research.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
I went back to my bedroom feeling newly buoyant and sent Nat a text, but she didn’t reply immediately, which somehow felt ominous. I went back to my search and trawled through all the documented witch trials around York, but Luke was right, none of the Yorkshire witches fitted the profile of a mother who had been accused by her own daughter. When I next glanced at the clock I’d been on and off my computer for almost three hours and my eyes were beginning to blur.
I got up, stretched, yawned, paced up and down and racked my brains, still intent on proving something to Luke. The old lady had cryptically told me to look for Grace/ Genevieve’s flaw, and I was sure she was hinting at finding ways to ward her off. I flexed my fingers as if about to play a piano concerto and went back to Google.
‘How to repel a witch.’
As I read my eyes lit up. This was fascinating because the methods were so varied. They ranged from using holly, hawthorn and oak to protect the exterior of a house to burying a cat in your foundations or putting a broomstick or iron sword across the threshold. I heard Mum shouting for me to come down, but something else had caught my eye. It was a short piece about a respected historian who had discovered many strange artefacts in a Grade I listed house that he had rescued from dilapidation. What really drew my attention was that the house was in Appleby, the next village along from Lower Croxton. Luke and I had passed through it on our way home. It was just as quaint but much larger, with its own pub, ancient church and village school. For some reason my fingers trembled as I scrolled down the page.
Thomas Winter unearthed several unusual artefacts during his renovation of ‘Martinwood’ and told local reporters that, centuries ago, superstitious items would have been strategically placed with the sole purpose of repelling evil spirits. Thomas himself was of the opinion that the house was haunted by a malevolent presence. However, he later issued an apology and admitted that his report was fabricated to increase interest in the history of the village and boost local tourism.
I traipsed downstairs, my mind whirring. Mum was looking quite smug. She must have sneaked out when I was engrossed and splashed out on some real coffee and gooey chocolate eclairs. She pressed the plunger on the cafetière and poured me a cup. I inhaled the lovely aroma and took a large gulp before posing the question on my mind.
‘Mum, why would a respected historian make up a story about his ancient house being haunted and finding all this spooky stuff in it?’
She stroked her chin in deliberation. ‘People do all kinds of strange things, Katy.’
‘It seems so bizarre,’ I persisted, ‘despite his explanation.’
‘He might have wanted publicity,’ Mum suggested, ‘or just got really carried away and wanted to find things that weren’t there … or … he might have been really obsessed with witches, like us.’ She laughed. ‘Isn’t it odd we have that in common, Katy?’
I looked at her scathingly. ‘Not really, Mum. It’s a little thing called genetics.’
‘Of course,’ she answered breezily, and began blowing on her drink. ‘What sort of things did he make up?’
‘Dunno.’ I shrugged. ‘It was a few years ago. Apparently he wrote a column in the local paper because of the interest in his house, but no
thing else came up on Google.’
‘Have you tried the archives? Most newspapers have them.’
I sat up in my chair with renewed interest, glad that the trail wasn’t yet cold. The day wasn’t turning out so badly after all. Mum seemed more animated than she had been for a while and I couldn’t deny that I was enjoying every minute of my search. I just wished that Nat would contact me to put my mind at rest. I polished off the chocolate eclair, licked my fingers and told Mum I was going to try the archives. My robe flapped open. It was 3 p.m. and I still wasn’t dressed.
I sat poised at my desk. I needed to be systematic about this. Thomas Winter’s apology had been issued at the beginning of 2007, so his column must have been published earlier than that. I clicked on the archives section, amazed how easy it was to access. There was a small calendar for every month of every year. The paper was only issued weekly, which cut down the search even more. And then I found it, an account of Thomas Winter’s journey to restore ‘Martinwood’, and his discoveries about seventeenth-century life. I skimmed through the boring parts about replicating medieval building techniques, stopping halfway down the page when it grew interesting.
… I began to take apart the fabric of the house and uncovered several items that led me to believe that the residents of ‘Martinwood’ had felt the need to protect themselves and their dwelling from a malign influence. These included a child’s shoe – believed to be a symbol of good luck and protection – and crosses carved into ancient beams together with horseshoes, which legend told would prevent the Devil from entering a property. The disturbance of the main fireplace and chimney revealed a ledge or niche concealed about two metres from the hearth. A small block of wood was discovered there, bearing a name – Greta Alice Edwards – together with a crude carving of an eye. In medieval times the chimney was considered important because it was an opening through which malevolent spirits could enter a dwelling. The wood was undoubtedly intended for the flames and this would have been part of a ritual to ward off a person of evil intent. It’s impossible to guess why the wood was never burnt.
I read with bated breath because this would mean that the woodblock contained the name of … the actual real-life witch from the seventeenth century. If only it hadn’t all been a hoax. My eyes were out on stalks as I immersed myself in the story. There was an appendix to the effect that Thomas Winter had checked a local parish register and the named person did exist. She was born in 1675, died in 1691 and was interred in the twelfth-century church of St Mary. I tried to forget that this strange man had used his knowledge to deceive people.
I glanced out of my window. Luke, dressed in a pair of overalls and covered in white dust, was looking up at his roof. He’d mentioned something about helping his dad with work on their house, and normally I’d be interested, but not today. I kept my head down in case he spotted me and dashed stones at my window.
A quick search for ‘Martinwood’ produced only a small photograph of a black and white timber building so old that it appeared to lean out from its foundations. There wasn’t much text, but it seemed to have had a chequered history over the centuries. It had been owned by the local council from the 1960s until 2007, when it had been auctioned to a private bidder. I drummed my fingers on my desk. It was time for another break.
‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost, Katy … or a witch.’ Mum laughed raucously at her own joke when she saw my pensive expression.
‘I’ve just read about one,’ I sighed, ‘but she isn’t real. I mean the person is real but she wasn’t a witch.’
‘Is this the historian? The one who made it all up?’
I nodded glumly.
‘Well, never mind,’ she replied cheerfully. ‘There was a grain of truth in it, and lots of history is blurred with legend.’
‘But this was different,’ I grumbled. ‘He made it all seem so … compelling.’
‘He’s just a good storyteller,’ she chuckled. ‘Maybe he should abandon history and become a novelist instead.’
I couldn’t let it go and didn’t want Mum to either. ‘But … it feels like watching a good movie and never knowing the end.’
‘Sometimes,’ Mum warned, ‘you’re a little too inquisitive and fanciful for your own good.’
‘Am I?’
‘When you were small,’ she recalled with a fond smile, ‘you were always saying funny things about recognizing places you’d never been before … and those terrible nightmares you had.’
‘You never said. What were they about?’
‘I don’t know, Katy, but you used to cry and flail about … even in winter you refused to be covered, as if you had a temperature and were … burning up.’ She swallowed hard. ‘But you grew out of it, thankfully.’
‘Wow. I don’t remember. Guess I must have had a vivid imagination.’
I went back to my room, worried that Nat still hadn’t called. When I drifted off to sleep that night my head was full of Mum’s words. I couldn’t help but wonder why all these strange feelings of recognition and déjà vu had suddenly resurfaced after lying dormant for so many years.
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
Genevieve was a chameleon. She had changed again over the weekend. Her face was now framed with curls, not wiry untamed ones like mine, but soft tumbling ones that bounced and danced in the October sun, golden like the autumn leaves. Her features appeared even more delicate than usual and she wore an ethnic smock over leggings that made her look like a beautiful waif. Whenever I tried to pull off this look I managed to resemble a heifer in a sack. I tried to ignore her, focusing on Nat, who had her back to me. I tugged her sleeve, my heart missing a beat in case I detected hostility in her eyes. But she turned to me and looked as open and friendly as ever.
‘Everything OK?’ I asked nervously.
She nodded ruefully and whispered. ‘Sorry about yesterday. I had to endure quality time with my family … no texting allowed. It was torture.’
‘What about the … you know … Facebook thing?’
‘I’m just going to brazen it out,’ she answered bravely. ‘They’ll soon be picking on someone else and I’ll be yesterday’s news.’
My eyes felt moist with relief that she was so cool about everything. It was such a weight off my mind, although I was still livid with Genevieve, who simply refused to be ignored. She came right up to me, vainly fingering her gorgeous curls. Hannah and Nat must have sensed something was going on because I could feel their nervous sidelong glances.
‘Love your hair,’ I trilled, trying to reassure them.
‘Do you?’ Genevieve answered casually. ‘My straighteners broke and this is the result.’
I stretched out one finger and wound it around a tendril, feeling her cringe at my touch.
‘How was your weekend?’ she asked pointedly, and something about her knowing smile made my blood run cold. She was probably hoping that Nat would have cut me dead and I was so glad that things seemed the same between us.
‘It was fine, thanks.’
We walked into class together. ‘Did you do much work on your project, Katy?’
So that was why she was extra smug. It was the final session before our first semester’s project was due, and Genevieve’s submission was bound to be fabulous. Despite starting college later than the rest of us, she was still streets ahead. I couldn’t compete and she knew it.
‘I didn’t do anything at the weekend,’ I admitted. ‘But I’d already finished.’
‘Good luck then.’ She smirked. ‘I really hope you do well.’
Her moods were a complete mystery and I was glad to move to my own desk away from her. When she was close by, this battle of wills wore me out and drained all my energy. I slowly unzipped my art folder. Time seemed to stop as I stared, uncomprehendingly, at what was inside. Dazed, I took out each piece and studied it, thinking I was hallucinating or they must belong to someone else. There was a roaring sound in my ears as if I’d been submerged in water, and warm terror engulf
ed me. My hand-drawn designs were almost obliterated with navy-blue dye and my fabric samples were unrecognizable. Weeks of work ruined. Miss Clegg must have noticed the horror on my face and made her way over. She peered over my shoulder and gave a deep sigh.
‘I’m sorry, Katy. You mustn’t have used a colourfast solution … this can sometimes happen. What a shame it spoiled your other designs.’
My voice was unnaturally high-pitched and panicky. ‘But it wasn’t like this on Friday. Everything was dry and crisp. I wouldn’t have been so stupid …’
She smiled sympathetically. ‘It could happen to anyone. There’s still a week to redo them.’
‘It’s six weeks’ work,’ I said, tears filling my eyes. ‘I’ll never manage to finish, and if I hurry it’ll be rubbish and I’ll fail and …’
She raised her hand to stop me mid-flow and her voice was kind but firm. ‘See how you get on. If you can’t finish in time, we can work something out. I know you’ve put in a lot of effort.’ She turned and walked away from me as fast as she could.
I tried to stop my lip from trembling, terrified of breaking down completely. Miss Clegg, my favourite teacher, had witnessed me acting like a drama queen and completely put me in my place. This was almost as bad as having my work ruined. I should have kept my dignity. When I lifted my head from the desk, everyone seemed to be looking my way. It was like the dream I sometimes have when I’m walking the street without any clothes, trying to get home. I felt so naked I actually hugged myself and tried to disappear.