Cursed
A Ghosts of Thores-Cross Short Story
By
Karen Perkins
LionheART Publishing House
Contents
Prologue
Rebirth
Relive
Return
Fiction by Karen Perkins
About the Author – Karen Perkins
Author’s Note
The Haunting of Thores-Cross
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Thruscross, North Yorkshire
7th August 1966 – 11:30 a.m.
‘Right, tea break over, lads, back to work. Rog, Steve, you’re up on Hanging Moor in the bulldozers. As soon as they’ve gone through, Paul and Simon, you get the chippings down. And take care – don’t go past the markers, that drop’s lethal.’
The road crew groaned, threw their dregs of tea to the ground and refastened their flasks before clambering into their machines to dig out the access road to the new dam spanning the Washburn Valley. The valley would be flooded in a month’s time, creating the new reservoir for the Leeds Corporation Waterworks to supply half of Leeds with drinking water, and the road should have been completed last month.
Rog led the way, the large bucket scraping heather and peat, then dumping it into the waiting tipper truck.
Steve followed, making a deeper cut. Together they gouged an ugly scar over the pristine Yorkshire moorland.
‘Bugger,’ Steve cried out and jolted in his seat, knocking the control levers. The big digger wobbled, teetered, then slowly toppled over towards the edge and a sheer wooded drop of a hundred and fifty feet to the valley bottom below.
‘Steve!’ Rog cried. ‘Lads, help!’
The rest of the crew downed tools and diggers and rushed to the stricken bulldozer. By the time they reached it, Rog was already clambering on to the cab, desperately trying not to look at the vista that opened up before him only a few feet away.
‘Steve?’ he called again. No answer. His mate lay unconscious, twisted in his seat. ‘No!’ The digger slid a foot or two in the wrong direction.
‘Rog, get down; she’s going over!’ Andy, the foreman, shouted.
‘No – Steve’s out cold.’
‘You’re no help to him if your weight pushes it over the edge – get down! We’ll get help, but we need to secure the digger somehow, keep her steady.’
Rog took a last look at his mate then nodded. He realised he couldn’t get into the cab without destabilising the digger further and he had no idea how serious Steve’s injuries were. He climbed down carefully, just as Simon drew up in the tipper truck. Half full of soil and rock, it was the heaviest vehicle there.
Andy got on the radio to inform his boss at the dam where there was a telephone to call for help, while Paul ran over with a chain. He secured it round one of the digging arms, and Simon backed up – slowly – until the chain was taut.
The digger shifted, turning around the pivot point they’d created. The back end now hung off the edge of the cliff.
‘Keep it there, Simon,’ Andy called. ‘And keep it in reverse – if the edge fails, you’ll need to pull him backwards.’
‘Can’t he just do that anyway?’ Rog asked.
‘We don’t know how badly he’s hurt. If he’s broken his back or neck, moving him could make it worse. We don’t want to move him unless we have to – not until the Fire Brigade and ambulance get here. What happened anyway?’
‘Uh.’ Rog pulled his attention away from the downed machine. ‘I don’t know – he shouted out, then rolled it.’
‘He shouted before he rolled?’
‘Yes.’
‘Andy, Rog. Come and have a look at this,’ Paul called and beckoned them over to join him where Steve had made his last cut.
‘What is it?’ Andy came hurrying over.
‘Uh, looks like a skull.’
‘What? Oh Christ, it’s a bloody skeleton! Well, that’s us finished, lads, no more work here for at least a month while they sort this one out,’ Rog said.
‘Forget that, we’ll just go round it,’ Andy said.
The three men looked over at Steve, then back into the grave. Only the skull and shoulder girdle were visible. As one, they shuddered as a worm pushed its way out of the compacted earth behind the jaw bones, for a moment looking as if the skull had stuck an emaciated tongue out at them.
Rebirth
7th August 1966 – 7:00 p.m.
John Ramsgill rushed through the door to the Stonehouse Inn and over to the corner table by the log fire where his mother – Old Ma Ramsgill – was usually to be found at this time in the evening with a pint of stout before her.
‘Ma, have you heard the news?’
‘Aye, it’s all these fools can talk about,’ she said gruffly. No one took offence; Old Ma Ramsgill had been a regular in this pub since before most of them had been born. She called everyone ‘fool’, and everyone called her ‘Old Ma Ramsgill’, although never to her face. To her face she was ‘Ma’ to the whole moor, although the moor was vastly depleted now. The families who’d lived down the hill for generations had moved away over the last few years to make way for the reservoir.
‘Who do you think it is?’
‘Who?’
‘The skeleton, Ma!’ John bit back his frustration at his mother’s obdurate nature. At thirty two he should be used to it, but she could still flare his impatience with a single word.
He took a deep breath and used a calmer tone. ‘The skeleton they found up on Hanging Moor – where the old drovers’ roads cross.’
She looked up at her son, for the first time showing interest. ‘Where the ways cross? Bugger.’ She said no more and again John fought to restrain his frustration.
‘What do you mean, Ma? Why “Bugger”?’
‘It’s Jennet, she’ll have been woken.’
‘Jennet? What, you mean the witch? But she’s just a story, she’s not real.’
‘Oh, she’s real all right, lad.’
John turned to greet Wilf Moore as he sat to join Ma. He was almost as old – and as stubborn – as his mother, not to anyone’s surprise: they were distant cousins.
‘She’s the reason thee’s the only Ramsgill in these parts – by birth, anyroad.’
‘Apart from the bairns,’ Old Ma Ramsgill put in.
‘Aye, apart from the bairns.’ Wilf paused. ‘Keep an eye on them, lad. If Jennet’s awake, they ain’t safe.’
‘What? What are you talking about? Why would my children be in danger because an old skeleton’s been dug up?’
Ma and Wilf looked at each other. ‘Not here, lad, not in t’ pub. We’ll talk tomorrow, early. Sue too, she needs to hear it.’
John opened his mouth to say more, but Ma held up her hand, drained half her stout and said, ‘Best get me another of these, John. One for Wilf too. We’ll need as much fortification as we can muster.’
John sighed in exasperation and went to the bar. He knew from long experience that he would get no more from his mother – not until she was ready to talk.
8th August 1966 – 3:00 a.m.
Old Ma Ramsgill dragged herself out of sleep, sweating and gasping for breath. She fumbled at her bedside table to switch the light on, found her glasses, and peered at the carriage clock she’d inherited from Grandma Moore. Three o’clock. The time restless spirits were at their strongest.
She reached a trembling hand for a glass of water and knocked it over. ‘Buggeration!’ she exclaimed. Then she said it again and again, louder each time. She held her head in her hands and wept. Something she hadn’t done for many a long year. Only one thing could make her w
eep after all she’d seen in life: family. And her family was in grave danger. She just had to make them realise it, then she had a chance of keeping them safe.
She threw the blankets back and eased herself out of bed. Her slippers were wet, but that was still better than barefoot on three-o’clock-chilled flagstones. Shuffling to the kitchen, she cursed again.
She filled the kettle and set it on the AGA – not one of those fancy new ones, but one that had been in this house almost as long as she had.
‘Uh.’ She bent double, hanging on to the edge of the range as images from her nightmare flashed through her mind. Dark grey clouds morphing into the face of a woman, hair flowing round an expression of sheer hatred and rage.
A wolf bounding across the moorland. Instead of taking a lamb, it snatched an infant from its pushchair.
Fire consuming not the house she stood in, Gate House, which had been in the Ramsgill family for centuries, but Wolf Farm. The farm her son, John, was talking about renovating as soon as he could save up enough cash. Or as soon as I snuff it and he gets his hands on the Ramsgill land. Screams of terror echoed through her head. The screams of her family.
Still no let up. Villagers drowning in the river. Babies thrown on to fires. The rocking stone grinding a sinister soundtrack to it all.
The screech of the kettle broke the spell and Old Ma Ramsgill shook her head, wincing at a sudden pain in her temple, and poured the water into her mother’s old earthenware teapot.
‘Dreams, just dreams,’ she muttered to herself. ‘That stone ain’t moved for years – not like when I was a girl and a storm could set it going.’
She poured out the tea, threw in four sugar cubes, and sipped, wincing again as she burnt her lip.
‘Stupid old woman,’ she mocked herself. ‘Get a grip, thee’ll need all thy faculties to take on that witch.’
8th August 1966 – 10:00 a.m.
‘About time,’ Old Ma Ramsgill scolded her son and daughter-in-law when they arrived.
‘We came as soon as we could,’ John said. ‘I had the milking to do and Sue had to feed the little ones and get Richie off to school.’
‘What? Thee’s never sent the boy to school? Thee fool. Thee can’t let him out of thy sight!’
Sue scowled at her mother-in-law. ‘It’s the law, Ma, he’s six, he has to go to school.’
‘Tell them he’s sick. This is more important.’
‘What? An old skeleton. Dead. How can that be a threat?’
Ma sighed. ‘Thee don’t understand. Go through, I’ll make another pot then tell thee the tale.’
Sue glanced at John, who shrugged. She thanked her lucky stars once again that she’d persuaded John to move away from Gate House to one of the new cottages built near the Stonehouse to provide accommodation for those forced out of their soon-to-be-flooded homes, even though he still worked the Ramsgill farm. She was still trying to persuade him out of buying that old ruined farmhouse. A couple of hundred yards up the lane from Old Ma Ramsgill was far too close for comfort; or peace.
John reached into the pram to lift the twins out, but Sue stopped him. ‘Let them sleep, John, they’ve been up half the night.’
‘And so have you.’ He embraced his wife and kissed her forehead. ‘They’ll sleep through before long.’
‘Can’t come soon enough,’ Sue said and led the way to the front room.
John followed, carrying the tea tray.
‘Just move them journals out the way, lass.’
Sue did as Ma bid, piling the old, leather-bound books to one side of the coffee table so John could put the tray down. Her interest was piqued by them, but after seven years of being a Ramsgill, she knew better than to push Ma into an explanation.
‘Thee pour, lass,’ Ma said as she sank into her armchair. Sue looked at her in surprise. Old Ma Ramsgill never let anyone else pour the tea in her house. She always had to be mother.
‘You all right, Ma?’ John asked.
‘Just a bit tired, Son. Bad night.’
‘Your hip playing up again?’
‘No, nowt like that.’ She took a deep breath. ‘It were Jennet.’
‘What do you mean?’ John asked at the same time as Sue’s, ‘Who’s Jennet?’
‘Thee’s not told her, John?’
He shrugged. ‘Why? It’s just an old story, scared me silly as a lad when you talked about her. I’ll not inflict that on my kids.’
Ma ignored the jibe. ‘It ain’t a story, Son, and I’m surprised thy mother didn’t tell thee either, lass. Jennet’s real. She lived in this valley ’bout two hundred years ago – in Wolf Farm as a matter of fact.’
John looked sceptical and Sue sipped her tea, unsure what was going on.
‘She was treated bad by Ramsgills. Turned her rotten, our ancestors did.’
‘You said she was a witch.’
‘Aye, cunning woman they were called then. Healers.’
‘What, like a herbalist?’ Sue asked.
‘Aye, summat like that. Anyroad, she became a pariah—’
‘Why?’
‘Had an affair with a married man.’
‘A Ramsgill?’
‘John, stop interrupting. Let me tell the story.’
‘Sorry, Ma.’
‘But yes, with a Ramsgill. Owned most of the valley then, Ramsgills did. An important family in these parts. Anyroad, back to Jennet. Folk didn’t take kindly to that sort of behaviour – not like nowadays where everyone seems to be at it. They shunned her.’
‘What, everyone?’
Ma glared at Sue, then her expression softened. ‘Most everyone. One kept her company, an ancestor of thine, lass, Mary Farmer, that’s why I’m surprised thee ain’t heard of her. But it weren’t enough.’ She tapped the pile of journals.
‘It’s all in here. Couldn’t cope, couldn’t Jennet. Bitter she was, it twisted her. She stopped healing, started cursing. Cursed this whole valley. Look, let me show thee.’
She shuffled the pile of books until she found the one she wanted, turned the pages, then handed it to John. ‘Read that.’
John glanced at Sue, then his mother, and decided to humour her. ‘ “Aye, that’s right. Witch!” she screamed at us all. “And how many of thee’s drunk my potions? Whispered my spells? How can thee be sure they were to heal, or for love? Which of thee men can be sure thy woman ain’t snuck a ‘love potion’ in thy ale? Everyone here’s cursed by my hands!” ’
‘Her last words, them was. She also cursed the valley, the village, and the Ramsgills in particular. Look at that bloody great dam they’re building. The whole village will be drowned by end of year. Gone. Just like she said.’
‘But that’s just coincidence, surely,’ Sue interrupted. ‘Given long enough, predictions are bound to come true. It’s been two hundred years, I hardly think you can blame a new reservoir in 1966 on a girl who lived in the 1700s.’
‘I thought thee might say that, lass, so I drew this up while I were waiting.’ Old Ma Ramsgill passed over a sheet of paper. ‘It’s the Ramsgill family tree going back to Jennet’s time.’
‘What are we looking for?’ Sue asked.
‘Look at the children,’ Ma told her. ‘See how many die? “Only one may live to carry the curse to the next generation, then they will suffer their losses.” She said that about the Ramsgills an’all.’
The silence that followed was broken by a cry from the kitchen.
‘That’s Jayne,’ Sue said. ‘Robert will wake any second now.’ Her words were accompanied by a second wailing and both parents stood to retrieve their children.
‘Do you believe any of this, John?’ Sue asked in a whisper.
‘No, but . . .’ John held Robert high and planted a kiss on the crown of his head, breathing in his milky baby smell.
‘But what? It’s nonsense. Witches don’t exist – not in the way Ma means. And neither do curses.’
‘But the family tree?’
‘It goes back centuries, how do we know it’s accura
te? Ma’s going daft, John. She’s nearly eighty, living alone in this creepy old house, the whole valley about to change with this reservoir. No wonder she’s seeing witches and curses. Thruscross is not haunted by a two-hundred-year-old ghost.’
‘It’ll do no harm to listen to her, Sue. There are things out there we don’t understand.’
‘You believe her?’
John shrugged. ‘Not really but she’s never steered me wrong yet, even pushing me to pop the question to you. Deep down . . . I don’t know. Deep down I can’t just dismiss it.’
Sue didn’t reply, just raised her eyebrows and pulled in a sharp breath. She turned and went back to the living room.
‘I might be nearly eighty, lass, but there’s nowt wrong with me hearing.’
Sue flushed and stared at the floor.
‘Aye, might be daft an’all – there’s plenty round here who’d attest to that. But senile I’m not. This is real, and the sooner thee accepts that, the safer them bairns will be. Mark me words – when Jennet wakes, Ramsgills die. She was disturbed yesterday by them damn fool diggers. Taken blood too. None of us are safe.’
Relive
9th August 1966 – 7:00 am
‘John, wake up, you’re having a nightmare.’ Sue shook her husband awake.
‘Wha—? Huh? Oh, thank God.’
‘You were thrashing around like anything – what were you dreaming about?’
John sat up and ran his hands over his face and through his hair. ‘God, it was awful. I dreamed of that witch, Jennet. She burned the twins. God.’ He shuddered. ‘I’m never going to get that image out of my mind. And the smell. Christ!’
‘Smell? In a dream?’
John shrugged. ‘It was a vivid one. Too vivid. What time is it, anyway?’
‘Bloody hell, seven o’clock, the twins have slept through!’
‘Hallelujah. Well, that’s something.’
Cursed: A Ghosts of Thores-Cross Short Story Page 1