The Angry Ghost and Other Stories

by Peter Spokes

  He examined it further for some evidence of the identity of the artist. Clearly the young girl was nothing more than the deliverer.

  He turned it over looking for the artist’s name and noticed something written in red paint.

  It said:

  So you too shall suffer

  And this was followed by a strange symbol – also in red paint.

  Okay, maybe a threat; threats were the work of the weak – only the strong performed the deeds.

  He dismissed it and returned his mind to current issues. On the basis that to kill a snake, its head needs to be removed, he had decided that those most influential in the pagan nonsense – the witches, soothsayers, prognosticators, and healers – needed to die.

  He had liked his analogy of the snake so much that the decapitation requisite was ordered too.

  He simply made it known that these miscreants were in league with the Devil and required immediate reparation and atonement. After little effect he then made it known that all those providing the names of these evil ones would be blessed and in the King’s thoughts or otherwise considered to be in league.

  Needless to say, the populace soon revealed those that were guilty of the offence and many too that were not.

  Scene 2: The Painting

  Three weeks earlier, a young girl – perhaps fourteen or fifteen years of age with raven hair, blacker than the darkest night and with emerald eyes – listened as her mother made a frightening announcement to her.

  She had listened to her mother’s description of the keep, a high tower and a vast lawn between it and the forest.

  Her mother had sat for an endless time holding Rebeka’s hands in her own and explaining that she would soon be in the complete harmony of Isis.

  “How! Why!” she had protested. “Are you sick, Mother?”

  Her mother had smiled. “No, I am well, Rebeka… but I am soon to die… as are many of our sisters and brothers.”

  “But why?”

  “The level of power a person wields is not always indicative of the wisdom they possess. This person with power over us has beliefs different to us and so we must… pass over.”

  “But that’s not fair – that’s not right!” Rebeka protested.

  “Our lives are interwoven into the ways of the nature of the world. We are part of a much bigger power and the belief of some minor despot is superficial at best. My existence will simply change. I will become the dawn of a new day and the rising moon of dusk. Any single man is of no consequence to Isis and the Horned One. Fear and sadness are things we have no need for. In the order of things, they are of no consequence.”

  She smiled with shining emerald eyes. “But there is something that we – that you – can do to remedy this particular unjust dictate. Could you do something for me?”

  “Of course; anything.”

  “I’d like you to paint me a picture,” she had said still smiling.

  “Easy,” Rebeka said and stood to gather her brushes, powders, mortar and pestle.

  Several minutes later Rebeka dipped the tip of her brush into the paint and put another thin impression of crimson wash onto the canvas and the clouds that hovered over the focus of her painting – the King’s keep.

  She loved painting; she loved its creation, its evolution and finally a depiction of possibilities hindered only by her own imagination – which was of no hindrance at all. Her mother had often said how she had a gift for the craft, which she had always assumed meant that she was simply good at painting. But in recent years she had come to realise that the ‘life’ in her paintings was more ‘literal’ than first thought; more esoteric than your average artist and the ‘craft’ was not referring to her artistic skills.

  She loved to show in her paintings a revealing canvas of movement, a dynamic image of flow; a potential of visual progress.

  She stared at the hues surrounding the focus of her painting.

  Scene 3: Thoughts of Revenge

  It was a while later that Rebeka looked up at her mother’s head that now adorned a table.

  She now understood her mother’s words.

  Rebeka shook her head. Why had her mother simply walked out meekly to her fate? It seemed all very well to feel you are simply ‘part of the world’ but don’t those who harm others deserve a place in hell themselves?

  Despite Rebeka’s teachings of acceptance and compliance with the world around her, and those in it, she knew that the King must die. Rebeka looked once again at her mother’s skull and thought of her king, and the plan her mother had designed.

  Once the painting was finished she turned it over and wrote on its back – in blood she had acquired with the aid of a small Athame knife earlier – the words: So you too shall suffer.

  Then she drew a symbol that her mother had described to her in great detail. It was so important that she got this right as it would draw the demon of the abyss to it.

  Rebeka had asked her mother to draw it for her to better understand, but she had been warned of the importance of not drawing the symbol until the painting was ready to be given.

  Rebeka had been taught the ways of Isis and the Horned One. All was in balance and in harmony – or should be.

  But for the murder of her mother and other close friends she was more than willing – and eager – to open the very gates of hell itself.

  Scene 4: That Evening

  That evening the King once again looked closely at the painting; he held an odd fascination with it. In its left lower corner, there was something that he would swear had not been there earlier.

  From his bureau, he brought out an eyeglass and returned to the painting. There was certainly something new in the lower left corner of the painting – how could he have missed it before?

  It was a dark painting lit only by the artist’s insertion of a full moon – as there was currently outside.

  Looking closely, he saw something hairless and white reflecting the moonlight. The amorphous addition also appeared to have what looked a little like an arm that terminated in claws. He stepped back and shook his head; it’s nothing he thought. There had been a lot on his mind recently with the need to ‘realign’ the town’s religious persuasion.

  He dismissed it from his mind and went to bed.

  The next morning in the bright light of the morning’s daylight it was forgotten and he paid it no further consequence, until the dark evening arrived and with it the portent of dark shadows and the unknown.

  He once again became concerned.

  He looked perplexed at the painting. He was drawn to it; devoted and more than a little addicted to its seemingly changing image. He looked to its lower left side to see that what had appeared there the previous evening was no longer there. Worryingly, however, was the fact that the strange shape was now halfway across the lawn to the keep.

  Paintings cannot change! he said to himself.

  Now that the image was clear of the dark forest the moon’s full glow provided a greater definition to it. It was a creature of some sort and yet humanoid. It was on all fours, angular and emaciated.

  He looked out of the window into the darkness and listened intently. Despite the light from the moon he could see little though he thought he heard the snap of a twig on the lawn a long way below.

  He shuddered before closing and locking the shutters and retired to his chambers.

  As he lay in bed he listened to the sounds of the night. He knew all was shut and locked but still he felt apprehensive as he listened to the sounds of the keep creaking in the cooling night air.

  Sleep alluded him. He knew he wanted – no, needed – to look again at the painting. After two hours, he rose, lifted a candlestick and headed across the hall to the tower.

  Before he reached his destination, he was suddenly aware of a smell – it reminded him of a time long ago when his hounds had brought
him a rotting deer.

  It smelt stagnant and bestial.

  The stench became worse as he approached the painting.

  The King stopped and looked around holding the candlestick high.

  Finally, he turned to the painting and held the light close. The keep looked darker and the clouds a deeper red, but they were not the focus of his interest.

  He stared in horror at the picture’s depiction of the small window behind him. It was no longer shuttered and there was a glow as if from a candlestick but also, silhouetted, was a creature, its long arms raised.

  The King slowly turned around…

  Scene 5: Retribution

  The following morning found the keep silent but for the wind howling around the dark halls and stone passages.

  Had anyone been present in the tower, and had they deigned to cast an eye on the painting, they would see a scene depicting a keep with forbidding red clouds above – seemingly moving.

  They too might glance at the lawn to see a strangely hunched and emaciated creature on all fours, crawling away – awkwardly – from the keep and towards the woods.

  On closer inspection, the creature’s awkwardness could be seen to be attributed to its grasping of red hair on the end of which a human head was dragged.

  Under Isis

  Prologue: Ash

  Despite the full moon disappearing behind the occasional cloud, Ash could make out the barn and the house behind it.

  Keeping low, he rummaged through his bag and found the spyglass. He lay prone in the snow, the hilltop position affording him an excellent vantage to view the old farmhouse.

  He was in the midst of a great forest with just the farm and its outbuildings before him. To his left the road disappeared into the woods. All in all, the property looked as it did when he had left some eleven years ago.

  He looked closely at the barn. It had been rebuilt since the fire.

  He waited and thought further on his plan to confront and kill the man who had murdered his parents and apparently now planned to murder his sisters.

  Ash had taken a life once before and the occasion had been abhorrent to him but he knew that with this particular demise he would achieve a serious amount of satisfaction.

  An hour later, he raised the spyglass to his eye and saw a shadow leave the house and move in his direction towards the barn. He tensed and then moments later relaxed again and smiled as he recognised his Uncle Stefan entering the barn. The years had taken their toll on him and Ash had missed him and Aunt Magda. It was odd how furtive he appeared, but then after the letter he had recently sent Ash, perhaps it was reasonable.

  Ash was just settling down again in the hope that his other uncle might appear when suddenly he froze. Despite the darkness, he glimpsed movement in the trees to his right.

  He flattened to the snow and waited.

  After several minutes, a shadow detached itself from the darkness gradually coalescing into a tall figure and furtively left the cover of the woods moving towards the barn’s entrance.

  Ash watched him enter the barn.

  After a short while the visitor dashed out of the door and back into the woods. Even in the darkness Ash could see the dark stain on the arms and front of the stranger’s shirt.

  Fearing for his uncle, Ash immediately descended the hill a short way and skirted sideways along the bank to get a better look into the barn’s entrance.

  He was reluctant to go too close as he knew his older sister, Willow, would know that he had been there – and he didn’t want that.

  Raising the spyglass again he could see in through the open door. Despite the darkness, Ash saw his Uncle Stefan – the man who had looked after him and his sisters since his parents’ death. He lay there on his front, the back of his skull covered in blood.

  This was not right; it should be his Uncle Johnne lying dead tonight; Ash was here to instigate retribution on him for his parents’ death.

  He thought about his sisters, still living in the house. After tonight they should have been safe but now…

  Ash was not supposed to be here; despite his desire to hunt the murderer, he would return to London until summoned by what remained of his family in apparent ignorance of the tragedy.

  Maybe there was now another score that needed settling with Uncle Johnne.

  Keeping low to the ground Ash turned away and headed back through the woods to the waiting carriage.

  Unknown to Ash, an hour or so later his sisters, Juniper and Willow, returned, separately, to the farm.

  Chapter 1: Memories and Nightmares

  Scene 1: Memories and Nightmares

  Flames everywhere.

  Ash could hear Juniper wailing as he held her tightly in his arms but he couldn’t take his eyes from his father, or at least where he had been a moment before part of the burning barn roof fell on him. Willow, his big sister, was at the other side of the conflagration, rushing about looking for an avenue of escape. The barn’s mezzanine was beginning to collapse and he moved quickly to avoid the burning rain.

  Suddenly his mother appeared and started shouting at them; “Willow! Over to me now; Ash!” she called to him loudly. “Run to your right to the other side of the trough and keep a tight hold on Juniper – Ash!” Ash couldn’t seem to move his feet and Juniper was crying. What should he do?

  His mother shouted again, more insistent, repeating her instructions, enough this time for Ash to suddenly look, bewildered, over at her.

  Finally, he moved, the searing dry air burning his lungs. He held his handkerchief loosely over Juniper’s face.

  Then Willow was there and grabbed Ash’s arm. They then followed a convoluted track through the barn as more of the roof succumbed to the ever-increasing furnace that fell about their heads.

  Then he heard shouting – a man’s voice. His mother immediately changed direction, and they followed.

  As they neared a hole in the wall, she grabbed them and one by one pushed them through. Once Willow was through he looked back waiting for his mother to appear. Strong arms held on to him and pulled them away from the smoking barn wall, choking and gagging on the dry smoke.

  Despite his thrashings, the arms would not let him go. He watched his mother become obscured by the flames.

  Looking around he could only see Willow – her dark eyes suddenly yellow and wild – holding Juniper…

  Scene 2: A Train Journey

  Ash woke suddenly, sweating and his skin clammy.

  For several minutes, he tried to forget the horror of his sleep – not a nightmare but a memory of many years ago.

  He sat up breathing fast and looked out of the carriage window for distraction. The sun was down now and the only thing that broke the darkness outside was the occasional billow of smoke from the engine.

  He had hoped to see some of the countryside on the journey from London but the weather had been inclement – to say the least. It had been snowing now for over three days and there had been a three-hour delay at Paddington, and now with the utter blackness of nightfall it was clear that it was going to be lost to him this time too. Pity, he had been this way only a week ago, and saw little of the countryside then, too preoccupied as he was with another urgent family issue.

  He had so looked forward to treating his visual senses to the sweeping lowland valleys and lakes.

  Ash smiled as he remembered the forest where his sisters and he would play for hours chasing and then hiding from one another. It was a shame, but necessary that he hadn’t seen them on his earlier visit.

  The smile on his face disappeared as he remembered his Uncle Johnne and the reason for his visit.

  Putting his hand into his jacket pocket he lifted out two letters. In one he recognised the curly calligraphy of Juniper, his younger sister. The other was from Uncle Stefan, and, from the markings on the envelope, was sent just two days before
his death.

  Juniper would be fourteen now and had been the only one to stay in contact with him over the years, but then he did end things on a sour note. His other sister, Willow, would be twenty-eight and three years his senior. She had always been, he felt, critical of him and the way he wanted his life to be. He didn’t think she ever forgave him for leaving when he did.

  What bothered him was though she infuriated him he could never find the weakness in her arguments. She was always emotional and directed by feelings of the heart instead of the rationality of the brain.

  Life was too short for regrets but there were times he so missed the company of his sisters and wondered what life might have been like if he had remained with them. Then he would always console himself in the knowledge that he followed the norm of humanity. His sisters did not (or could not), and followed the ways of their father.

  He was thirteen when his parents died in the barn fire. Since then, his Aunt Magda and Uncle Stefan had looked after them.

  The story went that his sisters and he had been playing in the barn when an oil lamp had fallen and a fire had broken out. Uncle Stefan had been away to buy some farming tools but had arrived just in time to pull them from the inferno.

  But both their parents perished.

  That had been the accepted story – until now.

  Ash looked down and read the letter from Juniper again.

  Scene 3: The Letters

  Dearest Ash,

  Uncle Stefan is dead.

  He was murdered.

  The constable thinks it may have been a thief hiding out in the barn and probably long gone after the event. Willow and I looked for tracks but didn’t get anywhere though I suspect there’s something she’s not letting on.