The Haunting

by Raymond M Hall

  ‘What happened to you?’ He asked.

  ‘Nearly run over a few minutes ago,’ Sebastian answered. ‘Crazy bugger was driving way too fast.’

  ‘Something came past a short while ago, must have been doing at least a hundred. We were all inside and didn’t see it, but the motor was whining fit to bust!’ The plumber exclaimed.

  The conversation turned to the job in hand and Sebastian tried to put the accident behind him, although he was still a little shaken up. There wasn’t much else he could achieve without getting into everyone’s way so decided to call it a day, he would drive into Rainly and perhaps have lunch. Driving slowly through the village, he was hoping to spot Briony and invite her to accompany him, but she wasn’t there.

  He increased speed at the perimeter of the village and headed for Rainly. The pain in his hip was easing, and he thought there was no real damage, perhaps he had been struck by the wing mirror, which being sprung would have bent back easily on impact.

  The morning's sun appeared as a gentle haze across the windscreen limiting his view. In the distance, he saw a figure standing by the roadside and thought at first it was a hitchhiker.

  He increased speed having no intention of stopping to pick up some stranger with all the accompanying risks. In these days of potential terrorism, one couldn’t take any chances.

  As he sped past he glanced at the figure, it wasn’t just any hitchhiker; it was Briony.

  The car ground to a halt under assisted braking, pressing him against the belt restraint and Briony came level within a few steps to the passenger door. He let her in, and she collapsed into the seat laughing.

  ‘That was the fastest anyone has ever stopped for me!’ She exclaimed.

  Sebastian looked at her unable to speak. Her beauty shone in the car like another ray of sunshine, warming his heart and turning his words to meaningless mush. His confusion seemed to amuse her even more, and she leant over to plant a gentle kiss on his cheek. Her closeness and touch invaded his senses. He put his arm around her to hold her close, burying his face in her long, light brown hair experiencing a strong sense of Deja Vue. He recognised her scent, he had known her forever.

  They motored straight through Rainly at her urging and continued on to Lincoln. The city would absorb them into its vastness ensuring their anonymity where they could both relax and spend a carefree day together.

  It was the best day of his life so far, decided Sebastian. He was completely besotted with her, and as the day began to descend into early evening, they reluctantly climbed back into the car for the journey back to Upper Marston.

  They travelled in the car holding hands, so comfortable with each other that no words were necessary.

  As before she asked him to pull over and he chose the same spot, gently easing into the small lane. They were quite alone, and the darkness under low trees covered their presence from any prying eyes.

  He turned his face to hers and in the darkness sensed that she was waiting for him. They met in a passionate embrace kissing and holding each other as if it were to be for the last time.

  Finally, they released their hold on each other, and she left the car, but this time instead of walking back to the road she carried on down the lane. He waited only moments before starting the motor and turned on the headlights. The path was illuminated by a stark white light for some considerable distance, but of Briony, there was no sign.

  Still puzzling with the mystery of where Briony had disappeared to he parked his car and made to walk into the pub. Looking along the street, he noticed James’ office lights were still blazing and on an impulse wandered down, glancing through the front window he saw two people sitting in front of James. They all seemed to be engrossed in a discussion, and it looked as if James might be close to another sale. Sebastian turned to walk back to the pub, now was not a good time to interrupt.

  A car standing beside the kerb caught his attention, and he noticed it appeared to have a broken passenger side rear view mirror. He strolled nonchalantly past the office and turning into the street approached it from the rear. The mirror looked as if it had been knocked back quite severely and when he checked its height with his hip, it was a match. So, this was the car which had very nearly bowled him over. He glanced in through the side window and saw several different pamphlets advertising houses for sale, but it could well have been owned by the customers now in the office. He retraced his steps to the car as a movement at the door of the office indicated that the discussions had ended. Moving back into the darkness of the night, Sebastian took up station in a doorway as the couple left and walked off down the street towards the pub, while James made the usual fuss of closing the door and giving it a good shake before approaching the car. The lights flashed, and Sebastian heard the clunk of the automatic doors unlocking. James drove off, quite slowly Sebastian noted with irony, and the car disappeared from view.

  Sebastian was left standing in the doorway wondering why he had deliberately tried to run him down. He would have to be on his guard in future as far as James was concerned, but at the same time, he was determined to find out more about the inhabitants of Upper Marston and the mystery surrounding the demise of the village of Lower Marston.

  Chapter 8

  Seth Bishop struggled downstairs and stomped into the early morning kitchen. There had been no Mrs Bishop for some time, and he had become accustomed to the loneliness of the house next to his bakery. There was no fire in the grate, and he was glad it was still summer. His wife, Matilda, used to rise at least a half hour before him to prepare a hot drink, in his case mulled ale. Seth liked his beer, in fact, he valued it more than he did his wife. In his eyes, she had turned into the slovenly woman that was her mother, and he had no more feelings towards her than the rough-haired dog still asleep in the yard outside.

  Matilda had contracted a fever and died three years previously. It still amazed him how such a name became the home for a sour old bitch with no love for anything in the world including him.

  His two sons would be firing up the oven if they knew what was good for them. Tom and Luke should have been his pride and joy. Two strapping sons. Tom the eldest at twenty and the other just eighteen, but to Seth, they were merely cheap labour. Naturally, they would inherit the house and business when he had gone, but he had no intention of going anywhere for a long time.

  It irked him that neither boy had attracted a wife. They had good prospects so why ever not? They could move into the house instead of curl up in the bakery at night, to be ready for the early mornings, the curse of every baker both then and now. With the wives in the house, he would have unpaid servants to cater to his needs, to cook and clean for him. His baser needs were also unsatisfied as indeed they had been for many years. He recalled his slovenly harsh wife and shuddered at the mere thought of sharing a bed with her. She repulsed his attempts to share her bed in the matrimonial sense with the threat of taking a knife to his tender parts in the middle of the night and casting them into his own oven. He knew she was capable of such an act and slept in the smallest bedroom, a rude cot for his slumber and not even the smallest of fires for his comfort.

  When she had fallen ill and was confined to her bed, he did little to help. He allowed the fire to go out and the coldness of the room exacerbated the decline in her health. Her food consisted of a bowl of cold gruel with a piece of stale bread twice a day. He didn’t bother to call in the physician, the man was far too expensive and in all probability a charlatan to boot.

  Matilda departed this life one cold Sunday morning with Seth and the boys looking on. Her final whispered words were hardly inspiring,

  ‘I’m done with this miserable life, and I curse you, Seth Bishop. May you never find peace and may you indeed never find love, for surely you are the coldest man on earth.’

  With that, she closed her eyes for the last time. Seth shed not one tear at her passing. Her sons looked down at her, then at each other and Tom smirked. Seth shouted,

  ‘Back to work you p
air of idle good for nothings, just because she’s gone don’t mean you can slack off!’

  A funeral was hastily arranged, and a small amount of money changed hands with the local parson to ensure Matilda received the appropriate six feet of earth, stamped down, extra hard.

  ‘That should hold the old bitch.’ He exclaimed, turning his back on the lonely grave and heading for the tavern.

  The two boys spent the entire service ogling the local women who had attended. Neither had any experience with the fairer sex and Seth thought they probably never would. Their duties at the bakery kept them busy for the full twenty-four-hours of every day. Seth was torn between wanting unpaid housemaids and unpaid general labour.

  Sitting at his sixth mug of local ale, Seth made a compromise with himself. One of the boys should find a wife. The other could carry on with the hard work in the bakery but remain single. How would he decide which of his sons would marry? He decided with some reluctance to allow them both one day a week off. But only until one of them found a wife. Then it would be back to normal, except the house would once again have a woman’s touch.

  He informed Tom and Luke of his decision that evening. Waving a thick, gnarled finger at the pair of them he explained the rules. The winner would be the first to secure a good well-proportioned lass who would be prepared to look after all three of them. Neither of the boys was particularly bright, although Luke did show some signs of compassion occasionally. Now they stood with matching frowns creasing their brows. Tom was the first to speak.

  ‘You mean we all get to sleep with her?’

  Seth glared at him.

  ‘No, you idiot. I mean she’ll clean for us and cook the food.’

  Tom and Luke wagged their heads.

  ‘Oh.’ Said Tom and not for the first time Seth wondered what he had done to deserve two such dunderheads for sons.

  Seth had caught onto Tom’s idea though and was thinking there might be some merit in his son’s suggestion. He had no qualms about cuckolding either of them.

  The two boys took turns in taking one day a week off. They had never had any time to themselves before and on Tom’s first official day of rest he had no idea how to spend it. He walked around the village of Lower Marston slowly; too fast and he would have completed the task in only minutes. He stood in the middle of the dusty track which passed for a road at the crossroads looking up at the decomposing body of the last customer for the gallows which stood proudly. The victim would be allowed to hang until his body finally crashed to the ground or the gallows was required for yet another felon. The local landowners did not tolerate poachers, and justice was both harsh and immediate. Age was immaterial to the local magistrate, and he handed out the ultimate punishment to all and sundry. The villagers had become immune to such treatment generations ago and accepted the common sight of dangling bodies in the middle of the village. The hanging was carried out by the county hangman, and he was always busy. He travelled between the villages and small towns carrying out his grim task dispassionately. A few coins in hand his reward.

  As Tom was considering walking to Upper Marston, only three miles away, a group of men and women approached. At first, he was afraid they wanted him, and he couldn’t think why; he hadn’t done anything wrong.

  He stood at the gallows as the crowd surrounded him, but they paid him no heed. One man carried a ladder and propped it against the crude scaffold. He quickly scaled it and with a sharp knife slashed at the rope securing the body. The crowd backed away as the corpse crashed to the ground in a disgusting heap. It disintegrated and lay with body parts laying this way and that. The smell was appalling, and the watchers were reduced to holding dirty kerchiefs to their noses.

  Another man opened a large hessian sack and began scraping the pieces in; Tom wondered how he did that. Every time the corpse was disturbed a foul smell struck him full in the face, but the man seemed not to notice. The one up the ladder had a new rope complete with a slip knot hanging from his belt and attached it to the gallows, allowing the noose to fall towards the ground with just a couple of feet of rope securing it at the top.

  The hangman appeared and nodded his head in satisfaction; it would do.

  From the direction of the inn, another sombre procession was making its way towards the crossroads. The inn was used as a temporary courthouse once a week when a magistrate visited the villages and towns in the immediate area. He dealt with all minor offences in the same day and dished out the appropriate penalties to be carried out immediately. Crimes consisted of petty theft, servant theft from an employer and the worst of all, poaching. That offence was considered the most heinous by the local landowners and wouldn’t be tolerated; the punishment inevitably meted out was death by hanging. The local gentry considered their game birds sacrosanct, and any transgression was dealt with ruthlessly.

  In the midst of the group walked a sad diminutive figure. Tom guessed the boy in chains was no more than eleven or twelve years old but walked with his young head high. He looked about him as he walked to meet his fate, catching his mother’s eye and smiling. She was howling uncontrollably, begging for mercy for her first born, but no one paid her any attention. The decision was final; there was no provision for appeal and the sentence handed down in the public bar would be carried out immediately.

  The crowd parted as the condemned boy was escorted to the foot of the gloomy weather worn gallows. His chains were removed and his hands tied in front. This was a cruel method perpetrated by the hangman. If the victim’s hands were secured behind their back, there was a good chance that his or her neck would snap under the weight of their suspended body, particularly if they struggled. With their hands tied in front of them, the chances of that happening were severely reduced, and they would be left to slowly suffocate, sometimes taking up to twenty minutes to die. The hangman liked to put on a good display for the crowd. In the city, hot pie sellers would move amongst the crowd selling their wares to the watching people. They would tip the hangman to prolong the grim spectacle in order to sell more pies to the captive audience.

  However, there were no street vendors here, this was Lower Marston, a tiny village, and the crowd became unsettled. The boy was local and well liked and the villagers, although acknowledging the justness of his sentence, didn’t want him to suffer any more than was absolutely necessary.

  The hangman, sensing the mood of the crowd and judging that his safety might be in danger untied the boy’s hands and instead secured them behind his back.

  The people settled again as the young victim, all signs of bravery now gone, was lifted up by three men. The hangman ascended the ladder and guided the noose over the boy’s head until it rested snugly around his neck.

  At a signal from the hangman, the men supporting the boy allowed his body to drop slowly so that in the end he was suspended by the neck. The boy kicked out violently as the noose cut off his supply of air.

  A man ran through the crowd and flung himself against the boy’s flailing legs. Grabbing both legs tightly he pulled down hard in one dramatic move. The group heard the boy’s neck crack loudly.

  It was over, justice had been served, and a father had ensured his son did not suffer for too long.

  The crowd dispersed leaving father and mother looking up at their little boy as he slowly moved in the breeze. The inn was soon full of villagers drinking ale, the only way they could deal with the ever-present danger that they could be next to inhabit the grim gallows.

  The magistrate and his hangman rode out in a horse drawn cart on their way to carry out their duties at Upper Marston and then on to the town of Rainly.

  Tom stood open mouthed as the scene unfolded before his eyes. He realised this must go on all the time and that although he lived in the bakery across the road, he had never witnessed the event. He was always busy in the bakery which had no windows. Seth thought them to be a waste of good money to install and a distraction from honest work.

  Chapter 9

  It was Luke’s turn for a
day off. He asked Tom what he should do? Tom had relayed the events at the gallows with all the gory details, but Luke was not keen to experience it himself.

  They had both peeked at the gallows the day after the hanging and were surprised to see it standing empty in the darkening evening sky, devoid of any corpse.

  The boy’s father and his friends had paid a visit on the night of the execution and had taken the boy down. Transported across freshly tilled fields, they had interred him in a corner next to a small copse of green trees. Their deed, if discovered, could mean they would share the boy’s fate, but the father was adamant. His son would not hang with the crows pecking at his eyes until he slowly decomposed while his distraught mother looked on. He couldn’t save his son, but he would spare his wife the daily misery of looking up at their little boy.

  The village was never the same after that, there had been many corpses swinging from the gallows arm over the years, but none had touched the population like the young boy and his grieving parents. Nothing was ever said about the missing body.

  A dark mood descended over the entire hamlet. There was never any laughter or merriment, people went about their business with sad looks, and several of the younger folk moved away. Not too far, just up the road to Upper Marston, where the laughter still rang out from the inn, and people cheerfully went about their business.

  Luke walked the dusty streets of Lower Marston on this, his day off, but there was nothing to see and no one to talk to. The cottage doors were closed securely, and even the inn seemed to be overshadowed by a feeling of gloom and doom. He glanced through the doorway and saw only two older men sitting at the same table, jugs of ale in their hands, but not one word passing between them.

  He decided to walk into Upper Marston; surely it had to be better than this God-forsaken place.