The Rattler (Rattler Trilogy Book 1)

by P. A. Fielding

  He took out an old, leather-bound journal which had been in the Church’s possession for many, many years, and had been passed down from vicar to vicar. The first entry in the chronicle was in 1760 and it contained accounts of requests from parishioners who had requested help from the church. Many of the appeals related to witchcraft, hauntings, and people being possessed by evil spirits.

  “Who presided? Ah, yes I remember – Reverend Walter Hughes.” He carefully turned the yellowed sheets which were covered in lines of neat writing in black ink, and stopped at the page headed 20th May 1900. What he read was an account from Hughes who had visited Ellwood at Newgate Prison. Hughes had listened to Ellwood, and recorded his story, and the church had taken his version very seriously. After he had finished reading, Carmichael wrote down in the book the conversation he had had with Zoe and Vana, before returning to Ellwood’s interview.

  He sat back and stared at the words on the page. She did it; the traveller woman did it, seemed to jump off the page, as if in 3D. Suddenly he felt a strong pain near the base of his spine, as if someone had stabbed him with an ice-cold dagger. The momentum forced him forwards towards the desk. “I’m getting old,” he moaned, rubbing his back, and thought nothing further of it until he felt what he thought was a trickle of warm sweat running down his lower back. He lifted up his shirt and gently touched his skin. He stared at his right hand – and leaped up from the chair in shock. It wasn’t sweat; it was blood.

  “How can this be real? OK, deep breaths – in, out; in, out,” he said, undoing his shirt to reveal a vertical 12” scar on his chest, the result of a triple heart bypass operation he had had five years ago. He opened the wardrobe door and stared at his reflection in the mirror. Twisting to look at his back, there it was, a small cut caused by the tip of a dagger.

  He glanced back at the leather chair, disbelievingly, until he spotted a tear in the leather. A quick examination revealed an impact slash on the reverse of the chair. Something caught his eye. “What on earth is that?” he pondered, gently opening the tear. Using his fingers, he pulled out a small, sharp, bloodied object. “What is going on?” he said, carrying it back to his desk. He sat down, moved his desk lamp closer, and examined it under the light. It wasn’t the tip of a dagger; it was the tip of a dirty, green, fingernail.

  He knew from previous experience that bad spirits can stay around for many years seeking revenge. He offered up a prayer. “Please, Lord, don’t let this spirit harm anyone else,” he said, as he wiped the blood from his hand.

  2

  Whilst redressing in front of the mirror, he felt a hand gently touch his left shoulder. He almost jumped out of his skin with fright. “Sorry, Reverend Carmichael, I didn’t mean to scare you,” said Ernest, a grey-haired pensioner, one of the older choir members. “I’m not interrupting, am I?”

  “No. Don’t worry, it’s me. I’m just a bit jumpy, that’s all.”

  “Well, that’s me done; I’ve had a quick tidy up.”

  “Thank you. Are you playing bowls at the Park Hotel after lunch?”

  “Yes, another practice game.”

  “Well, say hello to the group for me. Goodbye, Ernest.”

  “Will do. Goodbye, Reverend Carmichael.”

  3

  Carmichael gently placed the journal back into the desk drawer, which he then locked. He threw the fingernail in the bin, looked at his watch, realised he was late for the Mothers’ Union coffee and biscuit charity event, held in the Hall next to the Church at the end of the Service, and walked back into the Church. Ernest had already collected the majority of the hymn books after the service, and, as Carmichael inspected the empty pews, picking up an odd book here and there that Ernest had missed, he heard footsteps behind him.

  “Hello? Is anyone there?”

  No response. The Church was, indeed, empty, but Carmichael became aware of a musty, earthy stench surrounding him. He continued to stack the hymn books, but was startled to hear the church bells begin to ring.

  “Derek! I might’ve known. What on earth is he still doing here?” Derek was the lead bell ringer at the Church, and had been for the past ten years or so. However, he had played a more active role recently since his wife died of cancer the previous year.

  Carmichael opened the door to the bell chamber. “More practising, Derek?” he asked, half expecting to see an old, bald, man staring back at him. Instead, the room was cold and empty. Six ropes were hanging down from the ceiling, and one, eerily, was moving gently from side to side.

  “Lord, I don’t know what is happening. All I ask is that you will be there when I need you.”

  4

  He was almost at the main door when he heard a croaky voice. “You cannot help them. Your attempt to get rid of me will fail. I am here to stay.” Carmichael’s heart sank as he turned to see Hagatha standing behind him. She stared at him with stony black, cold, piercing eyes. He could feel the blood starting to drain from his arms and legs. “You’re not welcome here! This is a house of God,” he tried to say, but it was as if his lips had been glued together. He mentally prayed for help and strength to fight this evil presence.

  She pointed at his chest, causing Carmichael to fall to the floor in agony. The gold chain around his neck suddenly broke in two, and his cross clattered into the darkness underneath a pew.

  “He can’t help you. Not now,” said Hagatha. She walked closer to the frightened man who desperately tried to crawl away from her towards the main door, anguish showing on his pale face. The pains in his arm and the heavy, vice-like sensation in his chest made him vomit black blood. His legs went into spasm. His breathing became more and more laboured. He heard the door lock – and realised that, for him, there would be no escape.

  “You cannot leave until you are dead,” said a husky voice. All the doomed man could do was to pray as Hagatha approached. His body was found some 30 minutes later by two Mothers’ Union ladies who had come in from the Hall. They called the emergency services, and the paramedics did their best to save him, but he was pronounced dead at the scene. Hagatha had claimed victim number three of her second coming. Who would be added to the list next?

  5

  Back at Zoe’s, there had so far been no sign of the elusive grandmother. Vana was in the process of waving a stick of incense around Zoe in a criss-cross pattern, whilst repeating the mantra This is my space – nothing can enter.

  “What is this fudging? And what’s it for?” asked a bemused Zoe.

  “It’s called smudging – it’s a protection spell, and I read in one of the books that it clears the area of unwanted spirits. Now, you do the same to me, and then we’ll do the rest of the house together.”

  “I can’t believe you read about this in an old book! Do you really think it will work?”

  “I think so. I haven’t had any weird feelings since we’ve been back – have you?”

  “No,” replied Zoe, “I feel quite good, actually.”

  “Well,” smiled Vana, “there you go. There might be something in it yet.”

  6

  Vana and the boys stayed over again and they all enjoyed a relaxing evening. They ordered a Chinese take-away, which they washed down with a couple of bottles of wine – and, on the plus side, there were no spooky thumps. Another positive was that the lads still couldn’t remember a thing of their recent torment.

  Vana and Matthew were upstairs enjoying an early night; Zoe and Steven snuggled together on the sofa and watched a couple of late-night movies. He didn’t mention her hospital stay, nor did he ask her any awkward questions – instead, he kept things simple. As a result Zoe felt much more comfortable in his company, and soon put the recent events to the back of her mind.

  That night, Vana had trouble sleeping. Matthew, however, was snoring as soon as his head touched the pillow! Despite the house feeling at peace, Vana couldn’t help fearing that it was just a temporary thing – as Pepper’s book had explained. Questions flooded her mind; how long would the peace last? Had the tr
aveller woman gone? Would she return? Vana lay there staring into the darkness, getting more and more anxious with the movement of every shadow.

  44: A paper reunion

  1

  A beautiful Monday morning; Zoe had been back on the medication for four days, and was already feeling better. The four friends had enjoyed a peaceful night’s sleep, Vana included, that was when her eyes eventually closed. The lads had left after 7 o’clock as they’d an early rowing practice. Zoe was in the kitchen enjoying her breakfast, and the final hours of peace. Her parents were due to return from their holiday early in the afternoon. A happy Vana walked in with all smiles. “I needed that three nine emergency poo,” she said, sipping her warm black coffee. “What the hell is that?” asked Zoe, with a puzzled face.

  “It’s when you get on the loo 99 seconds before you shit.”

  “Three nines? So what happened to the other 9 seconds?”

  “That’s in my pants.”

  “Nice Vana, really nice.”

  2

  A few hours later and the door opened with a loud clang. “James!” yelled Mary. “Sorry mum,” he replied, as he ran up the stairs towards the toilet. The plumber never came round due to Zoe’s brief hospital stay. “Hello? We’re home!” shouted Mary. Zoe and Vana walked out of the kitchen to greet her.

  “It’s good to be home,” said Mary, hugging Zoe. She had been worrying ever since Carl had informed her of Zoe’s relapse.

  “Where are dad and Aunt Sally?”

  “They’re outside.”

  “Still arguing on who’s paying the taxi driver?”

  “You got it in one.”

  “I’ll give them a hand with their bags,” said Vana, as she walked towards the door. She knew that Mary wanted to have a quick mother-daughter chat before the gang descended on the kitchen.

  “Thanks Vana. I’ll put the kettle on.”

  Zoe sat down at the table as Mary filled up the kettle. “Uncle Carl told me what happened,” she said, looking over at her daughter. “I’ve been having a few bad school nightmares. That’s all mum, no need to worry – really, I’m fine.” Mary knew exactly what she was referring too. “That girl...”

  “Mum, I missed a few meals and exercised a bit too much. It won’t happen again. I promise,” Zoe replied. She didn’t want to tell her mum that Helen had since been murdered, along with Barbara. She thought it would be better to let them settle back down before revealing Vana’s so-called Horror News. Mary joined Zoe at the table, carrying two mugs of tea. “I will be alright mum. I’m back on the meds, and I feel a hundred percent better. Now, enough of me; how was the holiday?”

  Mary smiled and placed her right hand over Zoe’s left. “It was OK. Your dad was up to his usual tricks of planning every trip possible, but I did enjoy it,” she said, sipping her tea. Zoe opened her arms. “So, where is my present?” Mary laughed. “Don’t worry, I got you girls something.”

  3

  Sally entered the room and it was as if she had brought the sun with her. “Aunt Sally!” Zoe got up from the table to give her a hug. Mary watched as the pair embraced and chatted about the holiday whilst she made a fresh pot of tea.

  “So, what’s this about a sexy, fit, Mexican singer?”

  “Mary! How could you tell her that?” asked Sally. Mary laughed.

  “Come on, Aunt Sally – details.”

  “Well, he got me up, and danced with me on the stage. It was grand. He must’ve been about 62 – I felt like a teenager again.”

  “What happened next? Did you see him again?”

  “Sadly not; it was a one-night-stand without the humpy-dumpy. We didn’t half roll back the decades.”

  “That’ll do,” smiled Mary, as she placed the tea pot on the table. Zoe was pleased that the week without them was now over and at last the house was full again.

  When Jim finally sat down to his cup of tea, he didn’t mention Zoe’s brief hospital stay, and instead carried on as if nothing was wrong. That was the way he worked. Of course the news had rocked him as it had the rest of the family – but Jim knew that if everybody was talking about it, the situation would never get any better and, worst case scenario, Zoe could relapse. That was what he was told by Barbara after the initial diagnosis. Mary, Jim and Sally all agreed that Mary should be the only one to raise the topic with Zoe. No teenager wanted to be constantly spoken to regarding the same subject, and Zoe was no different. He wanted her to be happy, not stressed out about it. A relaxed approach was far better.

  The family and Vana enjoyed a night out at the local Chinese restaurant. James was up to his usual tricks of blowing into his Fanta and generally messing about. Zoe was finally smiling and laughing again as she watched James’ antics. There was a feeling of relief for Zoe knowing that her folks and her little brother were back. She had missed them over the last few days, especially her mum.

  4

  8.05 pm. Zoe found Aunt Sally unpacking her suitcase on the bed. Vana had changed the bed sheets and tidied up the room. Sally expressed joy as Zoe entered the room. “Here’s my favourite niece,” she said, giving her a hug and kiss. Zoe was holding Ellwood’s journal.

  “Aunt Sally, you know when you said stay away from the second floor?”

  “Yes; I knew this was coming.”

  “What did you mean by that?”

  Sally sat down on the bed next to Zoe. “It was the middle of the night and I heard someone call me Violet. Why do you ask dear?” she asked, pushing Zoe’s hair away from her face. Zoe then told her everything that had taken place over the past week. They both decided not to tell Mary or Jim about the ghostly happenings as it would only get back to James. Sally was half stunned, and the other half upset, that Zoe and Vana had had to go through it without guidance.

  Zoe finished by showing Sally the journal. “Where did you get this from?”

  “That’s the diary we found,” Zoe said, as she passed the fragile book to Sally. After looking carefully through the first entries of hand-written literature, with sketches that leapt off the page, Sally finally recognised the hand-writing; and the name Sydney Ellwood – it rang a bell.

  “Is this a copy of the painting you burned?”

  “Please don’t say that. We just followed his instructions.”

  “It’s alright dear. It’s just a shame; he had a look of James.”

  “That’s exactly what we thought.”

  Sally froze; her eyes wandered around the room. She felt as if someone had brushed passed her, stopping at her suitcase; the zip slowly moved.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Just a minute dear.”

  Sally got up from the bed, and opened the zipped part of her empty suitcase. She then took out a plastic wallet containing folded pieces of paper.

  A large grin beamed across Sally’s face as she emptied the pack onto the bed. Zoe moved her fingers over the hand-written poems and short stories. The hand-writing was Ellwood’s. There was a partial signature on one of the pages – Sydney Ell – the rest was smudged.

  “How did you get these?” Zoe asked, as her eyes scanned over them. “James is doing the family tree in History and these are all the records I have. According to your great grandma she was told these bedtime stories by this man,” she pointed to the dirty smudge.

  All Sally knew was that her mother and uncle grew up as orphans, and little was known about either their past or their family. “OK, what you’re saying is that you think we’re related to this family?” Zoe asked, as she read a short poem. “Your great grandma always told me that she could remember living in a big house. She assumed it was all just a dream.”

  Zoe placed the fragile papers back into the plastic wallet. “But surely, great grandma would’ve remembered her family?” Sally stared at the papers and journal. “If the travellers could curse the family, what else could they do?” Zoe knew what these people were capable of but tried to block that thought from her memory.

  “It would’ve been a tormenting time
for them. Maybe that’s how Ellwood was able to connect in the way he did. He must’ve known his poems were here,” Zoe said, moving the large empty suitcase back on top of the wardrobe. She sat back down next to Sally. “What did great grandma tell you about her childhood?” Sally hugged her. “Very little; all she really knew were a few facts.”

  5

  June 24th 1896; it was a dark and windy night at the docks in Liverpool. Two months had passed since the fire at the Manor House. Violet and William had been travelling from London with a small group of travellers since the eventful night. The travellers told them that their parents had died and they had to live with them. The group, consisting of six families, had sold their horses and caravans to the locals, and were now on their way back to Dublin, Ireland.

  The children, of course, couldn’t go with them and consequently were taken to the local workhouse in Brownlow Hill, Liverpool. “To be dumped at that place must’ve been horrible. It was, apparently, one of the largest in the country, which meant it was packed,” Sally explained. It was a huge building located in the centre of the city with no gardens, but instead had small cobbled yards. A traveller had taken them to the dreaded building; he knocked once on the door and then left the children standing all alone, frightened, cold, and confused, in the doorway. Inside Violet’s well-worn jacket pocket was the only record of their existence, a handful of bedtime poems and stories written by Ellwood. These, and a small doll, were the only items Violet managed to grab during the kidnap.

  The next day they were sent to the Kirkdale Industrial School situated on Booth Lane, Liverpool. The building was an orphanage, first opened on May 1st 1845, and housed just over a thousand children. They were taught basic reading, writing, and mathematics. William was schooled in the trades of tailoring, shoemaking, carpentering and the requirements for young sailors. Boys either entered the tailoring trade or that of a sailor.

  Violet was mainly taught the skills of knitting and needlework, and everything that was regarded as general housework, which included washing, ironing, mangling, and cooking. Therefore, Violet would qualify to become a domestic servant when she became of working age – and that was where she ended up working, as a maid in a local Manor House in nearby Crosby. Despite William joining the Royal Navy, and working his way up the ranks to the position of Commander by the time he retired at the age of 54, this was not the lifestyle their parents had hoped for them, and was indeed a far cry from what they would have experienced had it not been for the travellers trespassing on their father’s land.