by Billy Young
The sun was setting, letting her move more freely around the place she had called home for so long. In the dark of the night she would even go out into the woods hoping some hapless wanderer would overstep their bounds into her domain but seldom did. She sometimes could smell someone near, yet just outside of her reach, beyond her woods. Those that did enter her wood at night seldom hung around for long as if they could sense her near, tracking them.
She sadly looked at the opening in the roof revealing the sky as the stars slowly began to appear in the slowly darkening sky. Remembering how it used to be when she was younger, when life seamed so simple. Her mother had filled the house with laughter during the long candle lit nights of winter. Even in her mothers last day she seemed to fill the house with her light. She dismissed the thoughts of those happy years of life turning back to the darkness that now was all that remained.
How wonderful life had been before her mother’s passing. How happy life had been then and how quickly had it changed when she had died to become so short and filled with hate. She had showed them though, seeking each of the guilty out one at a time to take from them what they had taken from her.
Taking her vengeance as she had promised as they taken all that was hers, even her life everything but this one overlooked glass jar, her mother’s precious jar that she had used to hold her eels pickled in brine. The contents still remained to add to the misery of those entrapped within.
All their fine accusations had meant nothing when she had visited them from the grave, her scream sending fear through every part of their being as she tore their spirits from the bodies they’d inhabited imprisoning them in the glass container to play with, to draw power from; to feed off them.
A leering smile played across her twisted features as she remembered. She eagerly awaited her next play toys but knew she may need to wait; she was patient though she could wait for she knew someday she would catch some unwary fool, her only hope was that it wouldn’t be to long and that it would be the one who had pissed in through her front window into her parlour.
Chapter 3
The street lamps had just come on as they left the woods behind. They made their way down the steep hill, council houses set back, tall, from the street. Gardens held in by hedges, some looking in need of a shave with the clippers.
“So when’s your kid due?” Andy asked.
“August.”
“What you hoping for or do you already know?”
“No, not yet anyway but a boy would be good,” Micky grinned as the thought of playing football during the summer or going fishing with a son would be great. “And you can’t tell much from the last scan, maybe when we get the next one, who knows.”
Halfway down the slope they crossed the road turning left onto Blair Avenue, nodding to someone they knew heading in the opposite direction out of the street then down the hill to get a drink from the nearest pub.
“Yeah,” Andy agreed though he wasn’t sure what scans Micky was referring too. “So when is the next one?”
“Not for another couple of months,” it seemed like an age away. “Then I’ll know whether it’s a boy or girl.”
“Ah well, I hope it’s a wee boy for you and I’ll keep my fingers crossed,” Andy said.
“As long as the baby’s healthy that’s all that’s important really,” Micky added.
“Yeah, of course,” Andy nodded his head as he spoke.
“Anyways, I’ll see you in the morning,” Micky said as they reached his front gate half way down the street, “about the usual time then.”
“Half seven,” Andy agreed as Micky turned into his gate. Andy picked up his pace to get home quicker, turning at the end of the street down the hill then left along the main street.
Micky made for the fridge on getting in doors. Dropping his bag onto the worktop as he retrieved a can of beer from the tall white oblong box, he opened the can before closing the door to the cooler.
“Hi babes,” he finally said as he turned to his girlfriend who was stood over a simmering pot of pasta sauce. The pasta sat in the sink where she’d drained it moments before knowing that Micky should be home any minute.
“Dinner is ready if you want it now?” She queried yet knew he’d want to have his drink first. Sometimes she wished he didn’t drink so much but when he was working she felt she had to let him get on with it, after all he was working for it. She just hoped with the baby on the way he’d be a little different.
“In a bit,” he answered predictably as he headed to wash up in the bathroom, beer in hand. He took another swig of the alcoholic fluid before putting it onto the cistern next to the sink. He stripped off his jumper and t-shirt to wash at the sink. Once done he threw his jumper into the wash-basket in the corner but retained his t-shirt after giving it a quick sniff to see how bad it smelled; when he was sure it didn’t smell so bad he pulled it on again certain he could use it for the rest of the night but needed a fresh one in the morning.
Collecting his beer he made his way back to the kitchen. The smell of food, as well as a day in the fresh air, now made him feel hungry. His girlfriend had predicted his thoughts and was already dishing a large pile of pasta onto a plate then spooned the sauce over the top. A bowl with grated red cheddar sat to one side for Micky to help himself, which he did liberally.
“So how was you’re day?” his girlfriend finally asked.
Chapter 4
Andy hung his jacket up over his work bag after taking out his sandwich box and flask before heading into the kitchen to leave them on the table for his mum to see to for the next day.
“That you Andy,” his mother’s voice came from the living room as he opened the fridge door to get a drink of milk from the carton.
“Yeah mum,” he said as he took a drink.
“What have I told you,” his mother scolded as she entered, “get a glass, for crying out loud.” She shook her head at him as she stepped past him to get his dinner ready.
“Sorry,” he sullenly answered putting the milk back in its place in the fridge door then closing it.
“Give me out an onion,” his mum said as she took out her favourite chopping knife from a drawer; at the same time turning on the cooker to heat the frying pan, that sat ready for business, “then you best go get changed.”
He put the onion his mother asked for onto the worktop next to the cooker as his mother looked in one of the nearby cupboards looking for something. Andy left his mother to get on with making his dinner.
He bounded up the stairs to his room to get some fresh clothing then as quickly stomped back down them to head for the bathroom. As he stripped off his dirty clothing he allowed the spray from the shower to heat.
Andy didn’t take long to shower as the smell of his mothers cooking lured him to hurry. He left the bathroom pulling on his t-shirt as he went. “What’s for dinner mum?”
“Hash-browns,” she looked over at her son think to herself that he was growing up to fast, “and I’ve got some chops in the oven.”
“Great I’m starved.”
“You’re always starved,” she smiled knowingly at her boy.
“How long till its ready?” he asked as he got a glass from the sink’s draining board to get himself some more milk as his mother got a plate from the cupboard where she kept her crockery.
“In a minute,” she said as she set the plate on the worktop next to where she was cooking. “So how was work today? Have you been painting again as you did yesterday?”
“Yeah, it wasn’t too bad but we will probably be working late tomorrow to get things ready for the opening on Friday,” he said as he took a drink from the glass.
“Still just you and that Micky?” Andy’s mum didn’t like Micky much thinking he was a bit of a waste of space.
“Yeah,” he answered as his mother began dishing out the food from the frying pan to the plate then stooped to open the oven door as she switched it off at the same time, in a well practiced manner.
Chapter 5
K
nocking on Micky’s door Andy stood waiting for his workmate to appear. The sky looked grey overcast yet the weather report was for it to brighten up later but he thought it looked like it could start raining before the morning got much older.
Micky pulled the door noisily shut behind him as he joined Andy. “Hi,” he said simply as he stepped past Andy who quickly followed in his wake.
Micky still felt the effects of the alcohol he’d swallowed the previous night yet it didn’t show on his features even if he had drank more than his usual amount after having a row with his girlfriend.
“So did you have a good night then?” Andy queried just to make conversation.
“Quiet, had a couple of beers, watched the telly then bed. You?” He didn’t really like talking about his personal life so kept it simple so he didn’t need to.
“Not much,” Andy replied, “my mate Joey dropped round so we played FF13 for a bit on the PS3.”
“Thought you had revision to do?”
“Yeah, and I did until Joey turned up,” Andy grinned.
“So I take it you didn’t get much work done then,” stated Micky with a knowing smile.
“Not really,” Andy shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly but still with the sheepish smirk.
They turned right onto the steep hill heading for the wooded path that would take them to the park. One or two of the street lamps were still on even though the sun had been up for some time yet the two men took no notice of them.
“Oh, you’ll not pass your exams with that attitude,” Micky jested.
“You sound like my dad,” Andy smiled before adding, “mind you you’re not far off being old enough.”
“Cheeky shit,” Micky said wide eyed and a chuckle of amusement at the younger man’s cheek. They ascended the hill quickly then turned into the tree lined back road.
“So what do you think we’ll be doing today?” Andy queried.
“Well we’ve still got that fence to finish then it will be brushing up before we open tomorrow,” he sounded as if he had resigned himself to some great enduring task.
“I can’t believe we open so soon. It seems like yesterday that we got the induction.”
“Yeah, well that was over two weeks ago now,” Micky reminded him.
They strode on in silence for a short distance towards the old tumble down cottage as the grey skies grew lighter. The fresh breeze, in their faces, gently playing with their hair as they ambled along. Only the clatter of their sandwich boxes rattling in their bags hanging from shoulders and the early morning song of the birds, courting for a mate to be heard.
“See we’ll miss the old firm match on Saturday,” Andy broke the silence between them.
“I’ll have my little radio so I can listen in,” Micky stated.
“Is that not against the rules?”
“Only if you get caught,” Micky said smugly as they past the tumble down, stone ruin with its weed strewn, uneven small front garden.
“What happens if you get caught though?”
“Nothing much, maybe at worst a written warning or a verbal,” Micky said dismissively.
“Is it the same if they catch you with a mobile then?”
“Yeah, but they’ll only be bothered if they see you using it if there’s customers about,” Micky explained as he’d done with other newbie’s in the past.
“So if it’s just in you’re pocket they’ll not say anything then?” Andy was surprised by this news.
“No, how would they even know you had it on you; they’ve not got x-ray vision,” Micky gave a short chuckle at the thought.
“I never thought about it like that.”
Chapter 6
She could sense them passing her abode as she cradled her jar on her lap. Her sharp teeth showing as she watched her prisoners pleading for release, to be freed from the despair that had become their existence.
“What do you think?” She teased the trapped souls within, “some new friends to join you, doesn’t that sound fun.”
She gloried at their added sorrow, the misery all the greater in the confining space of the old thick glass jar sealed on top by a rag wrapped around a wide mouldy cork stopper inscribed with her mark, pushed down into its mouth.
It had been her mother’s, the only thing her accusers had left undamaged after they had come for her and taken her away. Hidden amongst the rest of the smashed and broken belongings it had lain to be found by her after she had risen from death to seek her revenge, so she had used it as their prison.
The morning of the 12th July 1698 was a warm bright fresh day. It was on this morning they had come for her even though it had only been just over a month since she had buried her mother. She had settled into the same routine every morning as had her mother. Up as dawn broke or before in the dark of winter to set the fire under the large caldron, far too large for just her, to reheat the pottage that was contained within. The large pot hung from a hook that was attached to the iron spit that spanned across the fire held high by the andirons. The fire fork rested to one side of the wide large fire breast.
After she had the fire going out of the banked embers from the previous evening, she would ladle out some of the cold stew, made from the home grown vegetables but only enough to start the day. For though she ate better than most she still had to be careful with what she had especially now she had to fend for herself.
Once fed she would put her wood bowl and spoon away after giving them a wipe on her apron that hung around her waist so they would be clean, ready for the next mealtime. After, it was time to collect water from the stream a short distance along the road at the front of her home; to give feed to her one and only cow, which gave a little milk though not as much as it used to, as it was getting on in years.
As she came back from the stream that fateful morning they had been waiting, the local sheriff with his fat chubby cheeks his finery evidently to show how important he was, with him was the laird in even more fine clothing making her feel rather under dressed in her hand-me-down clothing with her bare feet sticking out from under the frayed, soiled hem of the skirt. Though fashions for the poor changed little she knew her upper bodice also looked old with its long sleeves showing its age, as the threads bared and needing more than the usual patching.
Behind the two fine gents, in their long coats over their waistcoats and knee length breeches, stood others though these were not rich; she recognized most as locals that her mother served as the parish fey-wife tending to births, giving out ointments as well as potions to chase the melancholy away in the cold of winter with all it’s aches and pains.
As she approached she looked curiously but smiling at the gathered crowd of five or six good men of the shire. “How can I help you fine gentlemen this good morning?” Helen asked cheerfully as the sun appeared from behind a cloud.
“Miss Helen Robertson, we are here on serious business,” the large sheriff said solemnly.
“Oh, and what sort of business?” Helen asked furrowing her brow wondering what could bring such grand visitors to her humble cottage.
“Allegations have been made so you must come with us,” the fat serious looking official said as two men broke away from the group of men, moving to either side of Helen, grasping her arms to take charge of the prisoner.
“What allegations? I haven’t done anything, you all know me as you knew my mother,” she answered her voice getting louder as the two men began to drag her, the pail she had been carrying fell to the side disgorging its contents. The other men watched from the corners of their eyes unable to look at her straight as she struggled to free herself.
“You are hereby charged with casting spells to the detriment of others and consorting with advocates of the devil,” the sheriff read the charge from memory as if he had been rehearsing this for sometime.
She understood why they were there now and began to struggle all the more, knowing the danger she now faced, too little avail as the two stronger men dragged her to a nearby cart. On reaching
it they held her down as her hands and legs were tied then she found herself unceremoniously tossed into the back of the cart to the amusement of the men that were gathered in her little front garden.
She felt every stone, every hole on the mud track road that took the cart to the village of New Mills. She was sore from the bruising journey but gentle hands didn’t help her out from the back of the horse drawn wagon when it came to a stop before the toll-booth that acted as the local gaol and courthouse.
They dragged her to a back room on the ground floor. Inside waiting for her, three women, tight lipped in fine clothing. Helen didn’t recognize them as they moved towards her as one as Helen tried futilely to roll away from them.
“No, come dear,” the largest of the women said in a southern accent, “the sooner we check you over the sooner you’ll be able to go home.”
“Home,” Helen said with hope renewed.
“Of course,” a thin pointy nosed woman said with a sickly smile, “we just need to examine you. Don’t worry about a thing; it’s just to prove you’ve not got the devils mark.”
“But I don’t,” Helen’s fear was returning for she had heard of such thing in whispers and knew that such things could easily condemn the innocent as readily as the guilty.
“Well then you have nothing to worry about have you,” said the third woman her accent told Helen she was English unlike the other two who both sounded like they came from the same area in Southern Scotland.
They seemed kindly as they untied Helen. She was afraid as they undressed her, embarrassment and humiliated was how she felt as they began to examine her, for only her mother had ever seen her naked before.
Unsatisfied at finding nothing the three turned to a needle, ignoring Helen’s pleas not hurt her any more two of the ladies held her down as the third repeatedly stuck the young woman with the sharpened metal in search of some area to call the mark. Small beads of blood formed where the needle was used to forcefully, to the scolding looks of the other ladies and cries of surprised pain from Helen.