The Haunting of Thores-Cross

by Karen Perkins

  I put my hands on my belly. Instead of thinking about loss; now I thought about laughter, about cuddles, about watching my son or daughter explore the world. I thought about teaching him or her to talk, to walk, to read. I thought about taking delight in their milestones and achievements; wondering what a child of Dave and mine could achieve; what difference he or she would make in the world. I dared to hope, and finally, I dared to smile.

  I turned to the sofa and coffee table, then back to the view. Jennet could wait – just for a little while.

  ‘There you are, I should have known you’d be in here.’

  I turned again at Dave’s voice. ‘Just admiring the view and thinking about the future.’

  He smiled and walked towards me. ‘That’s great, Em. You need to slow down, look after yourself – and the baby.’ He gazed carefully at me and I nodded, smiling. He looked relieved and I turned back to the window as he wrapped his arms around me. I leaned into him and we watched the water together. We were going to be a family after all.

  The sound of barking from downstairs disturbed us, and I sighed. ‘They need a walk, are you coming?’

  ‘I’d love to,’ Dave replied, and we left the office hand in hand. I glanced back once at Jennet’s book on the coffee table, but forced myself to keep going. I needed a break. I needed to think about myself for a while.

  *

  At the shore, the one person I least wanted to see was walking towards us on his way home.

  ‘Mark,’ Dave greeted him and moved to shake his hand.

  ‘David,’ Mark returned the greeting, then glanced at me. ‘Emma. How are you, you’re looking well?’

  ‘Thank you,’ I replied, uncomfortable.

  ‘Yes, she is isn’t she? She’s finally taking things easier – if I’d known a baby would have had this effect, I’d have insisted on trying again a long time ago!’ Dave laughed, proud. I cringed.

  ‘Baby?’ Mark’s face blanched.

  ‘Yes, we’re having a baby,’ said Dave, delighted. ‘It’s early days yet, but we couldn’t be happier.’

  ‘Dave, we shouldn’t tell people yet, it’s bad luck.’

  ‘Nonsense, with me away so much, I need to know somebody is keeping an eye on you.’

  I glanced up quickly at Mark. His colour had returned.

  ‘Congratulations,’ he said, holding his hand out to shake Dave’s again. I felt Dave stiffen, does he suspect? I wrapped both arms around his waist and leaned into him, squeezing. After a moment, he reciprocated.

  ‘Fantastic news,’ Mark had recovered himself now. ‘Kathy’s going to be so excited – she adores babies! You won’t be short of help once it arrives.’ He paused. ‘Speaking of Kathy, I promised I wouldn’t be long. It were good to see you, and again – congratulations!’

  He hurried off and Dave dropped his arm. We walked on in silence.

  Chapter 35 - Jennet

  18th October 1777

  Marjory Wainwright were pregnant! Already! I had counted on at least another six months’ supply of flour, but that had gone now. I were happy for her, really – there were sure to be someone else who needed a remedy, a potion, or a curse – I were being asked for more and more of them now. They could pay me in flour – and hay; the beasts would need extra food soon. It seemed Mam had been right, and Peg Lofthouse’s preparations weren’t worth the walk to Padside. Despite everything, I still had customers. They may be desperate to risk knocking on my door, but that boded well for me. They would pay whatever I asked.

  Shouting outside had me rushing to the door.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ There were a dozen people in my yard. ‘Watch my plants!’ They were standing on the herbs.

  ‘There she is, the witch! Get her!’

  I gasped in fear. Had someone called me a witch? I tried to shut the door so I could bar it against them, but I were too slow.

  Thomas Ramsgill were the first man through, and he grabbed my arm.

  ‘It’s the stocks for thee, lass, come on. There’s no point resisting. Put on thy coat.’

  I calmed a little. When I had heard the word witch, I had pictured a gallows.

  ‘The stocks, why? What for?’

  ‘Marjory Wainwright’s cooking pot.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Thee stole it.’

  ‘No! It were given in fair payment, she wanted children, I helped her, she’s pregnant. The pot were payment for my remedy!’

  ‘Well, she says thee stole it, and as she’s respectable married lady, and thee . . .’ he tailed off, a look of disgust on his face. I gritted my teeth and stared back at him.

  ‘Not pregnant for long, though, were she?’ somebody shouted. I thought it were Digger Blackstock.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Aye, lost babby – thy herbs weren’t up to much were they?’

  ‘What? She’s lost babby?’ I asked, horrified. Poor Marjory.

  ‘Did thee curse her, too?’

  ‘Has thee cursed whole village? Thy babby didn’t live so no bugger else’s will?’

  Thomas Ramsgill pulled me through the door, and I could see them all now. People who used to be friends. Martha Grange, Susan Gill. Now they cheered and spat and hated.

  Tears filled my eyes. How could they do this to me?

  We had reached the lane, and I were still shouting, ‘I didn’t, I ain’t, I didn’t!’ Nobody listened. Nobody cared. Then I remembered the corn dolly – had Marjory Wainwright made it?

  Past the junction – the lane Richard Ramsgill took to go home. And there he were, standing to one side, watching with Peter Stockdale. At least he weren’t one of the mob.

  ‘Richard! Richard, help me, please, I ain’t done nowt!’

  He stared at his boots and said nowt. I fell silent and looked at Peter. He turned away, a pained expression on his face. What more were there to say? Who to say it to?

  We reached Low Green and I glanced up the lane to the church. No help there, neither.

  Digger lifted the top bar of the stocks, and Thomas Ramsgill held my wrists in the half circle gaps carved into the lower plank of wood. The top came down and were secured.

  I stared up at William Smith as he worked the metal links, but he would not meet my eyes. I had known him since I were a child, sneaking down to the smithy to watch him work his forge, sparks and fire flying. Now he were locking me up.

  He stepped away, and I looked up at them; my wrists shackled by a plank of wood. I were bent nearly double and my back were aching already.

  How long will they leave me here? Even with Pa’s coat, I were chilled. To be stood here all night, unmoving, would be unbearable.

  ‘Please, I ain’t done owt, please!’ I begged them, then dropped my head, it hurt to crane my neck to see them.

  The crowd laughed and cheered. Nobody believed me.

  Then they silenced, and I glanced up again, hopeful.

  ‘Marjory! Please – I helped thee, I helped thee get with child, thee knows I did. I did nowt to harm thy babby, nowt! Please help me.’

  She stared at me for a moment, then spat. It landed below my eye, but with my hands in the stocks, I could not wipe it away.

  Then Elizabeth Ramsgill stepped forward and added her own spittle to Marjory’s.

  More women followed their example, and the rest of them laughed and clapped as if a band of mummers had trekked across the moors to entertain us.

  Tears rolled down my face, how had things come to this?

  *

  They got bored after an hour or two. I mean, who would not? I only stood there, bent over, hands imprisoned.

  After Marjory spat, I did not speak another word. There were no point. I heard their cheers, their laughter, their fun, but I did not listen. I did not react. Instead, I pictured myself on the moors, running free.

  It were dark now and had been for some time. The crowd were long gone. The odd person scurried past; some stared, some looked away, b
ut none stopped.

  I were thirsty, hungry and cold. My wrists stung from the restriction and the wood – I were sure I had splinters – and my back had gone from ache to agony.

  Thomas Ramsgill and William Smith were long gone, and I had realised some time ago that they really were going to leave me here all night.

  ‘There she is! There’s the witch, I told thee!’

  I lifted my head, now what?

  Three figures approached out of the gloom: Little Rob Ramsgill, Billy Gill and Johnny Ward.

  ‘Go home, boys, there’s nowt for thee here.’

  They laughed and spat whilst crossing their fingers. I realised they were drunk. I jumped and squealed when a hand smacked my backside.

  ‘Get out of here, boys! Thee don’t want to do this!’ I were scared now, and knew my fear were clear in my voice, but I had to keep trying. With my hands tied, my voice were my only defence.

  ‘Go home, go home now!’

  They laughed. ‘Or what, thee’ll curse us?’

  ‘Damn right I will, if any of thee touches me, he’ll lose his hand within a year!’

  They laughed again, nervously now – they believed the stories. I could use that.

  ‘Thee’s calling me witch – watch out I don’t grow fangs and howl at the moon! If thee don’t leave now, thee’ll be getting a visit from wolves first night I’m free! Who’ll be first? Thee, Johnny Ward? Or thee, Billy Gill. What about thee, Little Rob?’

  I realised I could not see Little Rob Ramsgill, only the other two, and grimaced as once again they spat.

  ‘Thee don’t scare me. Thee’s no witch, only a trollop who opened her legs for me uncle.’

  The words came from behind me and I looked round, moving away from the voice as much as possible. Bent over, in skirts, I knew how vulnerable I were.

  I could not get away though, I could only move my feet half a yard or so, and I gasped when cold air hit my thighs and buttocks.

  ‘Little Rob, stop that at once!’

  I glanced up again at the new voice. A voice I knew well. Richard.

  ‘Get away from here, all of thee!’

  The two other boys ran, but I knew from Little Rob’s groping hand that he were not going anywhere.

  ‘What’s wrong, Uncle Richard? Thee don’t want to share?’

  ‘Why thee . . .!’

  I heard the sound of flesh striking flesh, then a body tumbled to the ground. The hand had gone from between my legs and my skirt were pulled back down to cover me. Footsteps ran off.

  Chapter 36 - Emma

  21st October 2012

  I woke, sweating and gasping, my heart pounding. The nightmares were back. Now that I was awake, I calmed and thought about my dream; I’d dreamed of Jennet throwing her dead babies on to the fire – except that I was Jennet. It had been my own lost baby I had cremated.

  I shuddered and wiped tears from my face, then listened to Dave pottering about downstairs. I was worried. He’d been very quiet since we’d bumped into Mark earlier, and he hadn’t wanted to come up to bed when I came up, which wasn’t like him at all. Does he suspect?

  My life was a mess. We had been here less than three months. Where had all the laughter and excitement gone? How could everything fall apart so quickly? Now look – my new book had taken over to the point it was worrying me now; I’d been having an affair I didn’t want; and now I was pregnant, with no idea who the father was.

  Then a thought hit me – what if I wasn’t the mother? If this was Mark’s baby, then it wasn’t me who had slept with him – it was Jennet.

  Yes! That explained so much. Jennet had got inside me – that was obvious from the way I was writing. The words weren’t coming from me, they were coming through me. Jennet’s words – not mine. I had no idea of what was coming next until it was written. It was all Jennet – she’d taken me over. It was she who was drawn to Mark – a direct descendant of Richard Ramsgill. She was this baby’s mother, not me. It was her book and her baby!

  I realised I had sat up in bed. It seemed preposterous, but somehow I knew it was true. I cupped my belly with my hands. This baby wasn’t mine and Dave’s. It was Jennet and Mark’s – Richard’s.

  Now I was scared. What the hell was I going to do? And how the hell would I make Dave understand?

  I jumped as thunder crashed overhead. I got out of bed and went to the office. I had to finish her story – it was the only way to get her out of my head and life. I had to write her out – to exorcise her.

  *

  Dave walked into the office. I glanced up at him and he stared at me for a moment. I realised he’d been drinking.

  ‘Is there anything I need to know?’

  ‘What?’ Shit.

  ‘About the baby. Is there anything I need to know?’

  I stared at him.

  ‘Why aren’t you saying anything?’ he shouted.

  ‘Dave . . .’

  ‘What? What? It’s his, isn’t it? I saw the way he paled when I mentioned the baby. Are you fucking Mark?’

  I flinched. ‘It’s Jennet’s.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The baby, it’s Jennet’s. I think she’s possessing me and the baby’s her’s, not mine.’

  There was silence for a moment while he processed that.

  ‘And who else’s?’

  I didn’t say anything, just watched him, stricken.

  ‘I knew it,’ he muttered and sat on the edge of the desk, his head in his hands.

  He lifted his head and looked at me. I flinched at the pain I saw there – pain that I had caused. And the tears started.

  ‘Dave, I’m so sorry, I really am. It’s not what you think, it wasn’t me, it was Jennet.’

  He stared at me in disbelief. I had no option but to keep trying. No matter how ludicrous it sounded, it was the truth.

  ‘I don’t love him, I never did – I don’t even fancy him! I love you, and he loves Kathy. It was like we had no choice, it was a compulsion. It was Jennet! She’s inside me, and he’s a direct descendant of the man she loved. It wasn’t me, Dave, honestly, it was Jennet!’

  My river of words stopped.

  His face was like thunder – he looked like he’d been physically struck. ‘You bitch. You fucking bitch! For a year you’ve refused to even try and I’ve waited. I would wait as long as I had to until you were ready, and now you’re knocked up by the fucking neighbour! What is it, you think you only lose my babies? You want to try it with someone else’s sperm?’

  I flinched away from his words.

  ‘Is it still going on?’

  I shook my head. ‘She’s got what she wanted, she’s leaving us alone now.’

  ‘You’re sick, you really are.’ His voice rose, along with his temper, and red flushed his cheeks. ‘Your actions are your own, not those of a woman who’s been dead over two hundred years! What kind of idiot do you think I am? I don’t believe in all that ghost crap! You need a doctor, Emma, a psychiatrist!’

  ‘No, Dave, listen. What about when you found me writing in the dark, with my eyes like that? How do you explain that? And the handwriting wasn’t mine – it was Jennet’s! That’s why I’ve been writing so much – it’s her, using me, forcing me to tell her story!’

  ‘Emma—’

  ‘No, listen! When I found that inkpot as a kid I think it must have connected me to her, then I came to live here, so close to Mark.’ Dave’s face flushed darker at the mention of his name. ‘Listen! He’s descended from Richard Ramsgill! She’s strong, Dave, so strong, she’s taking over.’

  He stared at me, fists clenched, and I thought for a moment he would hit me. He took a few deep breaths and got control over himself. The emotion left him and he stared at me coldly. That was worse than his anger; he’d switched himself off from me.

  ‘I’m away to Edinburgh again on Wednesday, for two weeks. Until then I’ll be sleeping in the spare room. Please, Emma, while I’m away, see the doc
tor. Please.’

  ‘And when you get back?’

  ‘I don’t know, Jennet, I don’t know.’

  I stared at him in horror.

  ‘Emma. I meant Emma.’ He left the room.

  Chapter 37 - Jennet

  19th October 1777

  ‘Thee’s safe now, Jennet, he’s gone.’

  ‘Let me out, please,’ I sobbed, tears pouring down my face. ‘Please get me out of here, I want to go home. I don’t deserve this, I don’t.’

  ‘I can’t let thee out. Our Thom’ll do that at dawn. But I’ll stay with thee, make sure them lads don’t come back. Why don’t thee kneel down? Thee’ll be more comfortable.’

  I cried harder. Why wouldn’t he release me?

  ‘I can’t, me knees . . .’ I managed through my sobs. I had knelt earlier to ease my back, and my knees were red raw.

  Richard Ramsgill took off his coat and folded it, then placed it on the ground in front of me.

  I glanced at him in surprise at his kindness, then sank down on to my knees. I sighed as my back straightened, and arched – stretching my muscles. There were a loud crack and Richard Ramsgill jumped.

  ‘What were that?’

  ‘My back. It’s easier now, thanks to thee.’ I knew it were only a matter of time before my new position became too painful, but I would take the relief while I had it.

  Kneeling in front of the stocks, my hands trapped and bloody from splinters, I leaned my head against the wood and closed my eyes.

  ‘It’s a rum do, lass.’

  I glanced up at him. ‘Eh?’ What were he talking about?

  ‘This past year has been Hell.’

  ‘Past year and a half,’ I said.

  ‘Eh? Oh, aye,’ Richard Ramsgill said. ‘I suppose things ain’t been easy for thee, neither.’

  I lifted my head and stared at him. Were he serious?

  ‘Elizabeth has made life Hell,’ he carried on. ‘Aye, got Pa onside an’all, she has, whole ruddy family’s been punishing me.’

  Did he really expect me to feel sorry for him?

  ‘Alice’s death really knocked me, thee knows lass,’ he carried on.