The Whitby Witches 2: A Warlock In Whitby

by Robin Jarvis

  Pausing for a moment, Danny listened. Mark was hopeless at this sort of thing—it sounded like he was gargling. Stifling a titter, Danny tensed himself, then leapt from cover and yelled at the top of his voice, "Gotcha!"

  The cliff side was deserted.

  "Mark?" Danny muttered. "You there?"

  From somewhere nearby the noise began again. Danny whirled round—what was it?

  "Stribbit if that's you..."

  But there was nothing, only the constant, seething hiss issued from the empty darkness followed by a series of snufflings.

  Danny took a step backwards—this was weird.

  Suddenly, a hideous, guttural shriek filled the air. Danny whimpered in dismay, before his eyes the discarded Guy Fawkes slithered across the ground as an invisible force pounced upon it.

  The boy could only stare in disbelief whilst unseen claws ripped into the ragged jumper that covered the effigy, tearing wildly at the shirt and newspaper beneath.

  A freezing terror washed over Danny, this was beyond him. He was petrified, his eyes bulged as the guy flew apart and the furious howls grew more impatient. With a final, disgusted squeal, what was left of the disembowelled figure was flung into the air.

  The fish demon had been betrayed; its master had deceived it. Faithfully, it had followed the scent trail all the way up the cliff, only for it to end in a tasteless and undigestible victim. Spitting out bits of newspaper, it eyed the human child which stood motionless nearby—now there was a succulent feast. At that moment, the creature's mind was filled only by hunger and had worked itself into such a frenzy that it would not be denied. It wanted to sink its teeth on tender flesh that was ripe on the bone and guzzle honey-sweet blood that pumped round an urchin's heart.

  With its long tongue slobbering over its chin, the Mallykin prowled closer, its eyes glowing greedily.

  Danny shuffled backwards, still staring at the tattered remains of the Guy Fawkes which were now strewn over the cliffside. "Get out of here!" his brain told him. "Run you idiot!" But his legs were stiff and he could not turn away. Then, to his horror, he saw the grass part as footsteps stalked nearer.

  "N... no," he stammered.

  The fish demon growled, its jaws dripping with saliva. Passing by the lean-to, it threw the structure down with one swipe of its claws and advanced, gibbering, with its black appetite driving it on—to death and slaughter.

  Danny screamed and the power of his legs returned. Yelling, he charged over the grass but it was too late. The Mallykin could move swiftly when it needed—in seven bounding strides it had caught up with the boy and pounced on to his back.

  Danny stumbled and went toppling into the grass—helpless against the invisible might of the fish demon.

  Reaching the bottom of the one hundred and ninety-nine steps, Mark Stribbit heard his friend's screams. They were terrifying—awful shrieks and he instinctively knew they were for real.

  "Danny!" he cried. "My God!"

  But he was too afraid to run to the boy's aid. As the pitiful cries floated out over the sleeping town, all he could do was listen in dread. For the rest of his life Mark Stribbit never forgot those sounds. When they ceased, abruptly cut off and leaving the night quiet and peaceful once again, Mark let out a cry of his own and hurtled down the remaining steps.

  "Let me in!" he yelled, hammering on the first door he came to. "Please! Wake up—it's Danny! Help me please!"

  ***

  Miss Boston was annoyed. She had not been allowed to see Patricia Gunning since the day of her arrival in London. This morning, before breakfast, she had knocked at the sickroom door only to have the baritone voice of the nurse bark out that the patient was not up to seeing anyone. So, the old lady wandered downstairs to the dining-room and discovered that there was no breakfast ready for her.

  When she found him, Rook, the butler, was still in his bed with a severe hangover. Drawing back the curtains of his small room she declared that he needn't bother cooking her any more meals—she would do it herself.

  The man only groaned, shielding his eyes from the painfully bright light and pulling the pillows over his ears to shut out the sound of her voice.

  "Really!" she clucked, looking at the stack of empty bottles which lay about the place. "You must have been getting drunk every night for weeks!"

  The kitchen, when she discovered it, was in a frightful state. The bin had not been emptied for goodness knows how long and had overflowed, spilling out over the floor tiles like decaying rivers of lava from a festering volcano. Old tins of beans littered everywhere and broken eggshells crunched beneath the old lady's feet as she gazed in disgust at the grimy squalor. Daring to peep into the fridge, she had found enough species of mould to write a book about and shuddered at the thought of what she had eaten the previous night.

  Rolling up the sleeves of her blouse, she announced to the filthy kitchen that she was not going to stand for this any longer and promptly began hunting for disinfectant and a scrubbing brush.

  By lunchtime, Miss Boston was sitting down at the spotless kitchen table eating her breakfast, having nipped to the local mini-market for provisions.

  When Rook eventually stirred from his room, he staggered into the kitchen robed in a dishevelled silken dressing-gown, clutching his forehead.

  Miss Boston tutted at his appearance and pointed to her watch meaningfully. "Dear, oh dear, Mr Rook," she said, "I find this very distressing."

  "Madam," he burbled in a disrespectful tone and holding up his hand for her to speak more gently, "what I find distressing is your incessant carping and badgering. I would take it as a great kindness if you would keep your prattling trap well and truly shut! And another thing..." he sniffed then turned a sickly shade of green. "What is that diabolical smell?" he asked.

  "Merely my breakfast," she replied ignoring his rudeness, "some bacon, eggs and a tomato."

  The butler recoiled from her as though she carried the plague. "Stop!" he begged.

  "I beg your pardon," Miss Boston rattled on relentlessly, "I normally don't eat so much fried food—but I couldn't find any kippers..."

  "Kippers!" the man exclaimed and immediately dashed from the room with his hand over his mouth.

  "Strange fellow," observed Miss Boston with a grin, "perhaps he has an aversion to fish."

  When she had finished her meal and washed up the dishes, Miss Boston went upstairs once more to see if her friend was any better. Rook must have gone straight back to bed for he was nowhere to be seen.

  On the landing, outside the sickroom, Miss Boston came to a halt. Judith Deacon was waiting with her feet planted firmly apart and her back squarely against the door, her dark eyebrows ploughed into a deep frown.

  The old lady had to force a smile to her lips as she greeted the woman for she really did not like her one little bit. "Good afternoon," she began as brightly as she could, "may I slip in and see Patricia now?"

  The nurse's face might have been carved from marble. "Out of the question, Miss Boston," she firmly refused, "Mrs Gunning is still too poorly at the present time."

  "But surely just for a moment?"

  "No!" the nurse snapped. "You cannot see her at all until I consider her to be strong enough."

  "And when might that be?"

  "Perhaps this evening, or perhaps tomorrow—I can't be certain."

  Miss Boston sighed. "How disappointing," she muttered, staring past the large shoulders of the nurse to the closed door, "I was rather hoping to... never mind—later will do."

  "You should go out for the day," Judith Deacon suggested coldly, "visit one of the museums perhaps? Much better than being stuck in here, it must be very boring for you."

  "Yes," she replied, "maybe I will. I could buy some presents for the children and send them a postcard with a dinosaur on—Benjamin would love that."

  And so Miss Boston spent the rest of the afternoon in the Natural History Museum, but her mind kept wandering off the exhibits and returning to the mysterious goings on in
that house. Her anger was simmering. She felt sure that Patricia needed the help of a real doctor, but she had promised her that she wouldn't interfere.

  "Confound it all!" she called loudly and her voice echoed throughout the high galleries, making every other visitor gaze at her in surprise.

  When she returned, having bought a book for Ben and a bracelet for Jennet from the museum shop, the house was quiet and dark. It seemed that Rook had recovered enough to raid the cellar once more. Having been released from kitchen duties by that nuisance of a guest he had selected a rather good bottle of port this time and it was warming him very nicely.

  Miss Boston slowly ate her dinner, it was only a thick vegetable stew, and listened to the butler's voice rising from the cellar. He was singing merrily to himself. "That man's nose will blow up like a balloon," she commented, "and, he'll only have himself to blame."

  At eight o'clock she knocked on the sickroom door for the last time that night. The same deep voice told her to go away and Miss Boston stamped her foot in annoyance before trudging up to her own room, furious and irritated.

  Now she was sitting up in bed; curlers in her woolly hair and a stern expression crinkling her wrinkled face until nearly all her features had disappeared. She was in a foul mood, her patience had been stretched to the very limit and her mind was ticking over everything that had happened. With her knees drawn up and the neck of her nightgown pulled high to keep out the chill which filtered through the entire house, she gazed into space—lost in thought.

  "Alice Boston," she said, "there's something very wrong here, and I'm ashamed that you haven't done anything about it yet. That Deacon woman's up to some villainy and poor Patricia is at her mercy. What you ought to do is telephone a proper doctor straight away—hang all promises you made!"

  Her mind made up, she quickly threw off the blankets and swung her legs from the bed. This was more like it, it was time for action—Alice Boston was not going to let that creepy nurse intimidate her any longer.

  Just then a noise sounded outside the door. The old lady started, and stared at the handle as it turned slowly and deliberately.

  Switching off the light, she reached for a brass candlestick and held it in readiness above her head whilst tip-toeing behind the door to wait.

  Inch by inch it opened until a dark shape was visible beyond.

  "Who's there?" Miss Boston demanded, her chins wobbling like never before.

  "Alice?" came a weak voice.

  Into the room came a frail, skeletal figure, its silver hair streaming behind, mingling with the fine material of the nightdress it was wearing. Limping towards the bed it wavered when it found it empty. "Oh nooo!" it wailed—stricken with fear.

  Miss Boston was astonished, for a moment she thought a bewildered phantom had stumbled into her room but now she flicked the light back on. "Patricia!" she exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

  Mrs Gunning collapsed on the bed. She looked terrible, more emaciated than she had been yesterday, with dark hollows where her eyes had sunk into the sockets. Across the left side of her face was a disgusting, yellowish bruise which obviously gave her a great deal of pain. "Alice," she said hoarsely, "forgive me."

  Miss Boston rushed over. "Patricia!" she cried, horrified at the condition of her friend.

  "I couldn't stop her," Patricia explained with difficulty, "it was all her doing."

  "The nurse?" asked Miss Boston, her temper boiling. "How dare she!" The old lady thumped the mattress in her temper and strode purposefully to the door. "I'm going to call the police!" she declared. "She must be a complete lunatic!"

  "No," Patricia begged hastily, "there isn't time for that, please, Alice, come here."

  Such was the urgency in the voice, that Miss Boston hurried back to her. "But she could have killed you!" she said.

  Mrs Gunning shook her head in despair. "She already has, Alice," she whispered, "I won't last the night."

  "Don't say that!"

  "No listen to me," she implored. "Deacon has been poisoning me for weeks now, destroying me little by little each day. I was never seriously ill, that only happened when she arrived. She's evil Alice, you must get away from here!"

  "I'm not leaving!" cried Miss Boston. "That nurse doesn't frighten me!"

  "Then she ought to!" wept Mrs Gunning. "You don't know what she's capable of... in all my life I never... never came across a soul so black and empty... completely malevolent—an evil force drives her... she... she is... darkness itself..." A fit of coughing made it impossible for her to continue and when it subsided there was blood on her lips.

  "That's it!" stormed Miss Boston in outrage. "Where is the foul woman now?"

  "Asleep in a chair in my room," Patricia wheezed, "it was difficult enough for me to escape without waking her. If she knew I had..." she shuddered and clutched desperately at her friend. "You must go Alice!" she cried. "Back to Whitby where you belong!"

  "I'm not going anywhere till I've telephoned the police!"

  Patricia gave a sobbing laugh. "Why must you always be such a stubborn old fool?" she asked. "Do you still not understand? Has it not registered even yet?"

  Miss Boston sat on the bed, her face blank, a sinister dreadful thought unfolded before her. "Patricia," she mumbled hesitantly, "you haven't told me why Miss Deacon has done this to you."

  Grabbing the old lady's hand, Mrs Gunning held it tightly. "I was the lure Alice," she breathed desolately, "I am the bait which brought you here."

  "But..." the other murmured, "what for...?"

  Patricia's clouded blue eyes gazed steadily into her own. "Something is happening in Whitby," she said, "something horrendous and totally evil—they couldn't risk you being there to interfere with their plans."

  "They?"

  "I don't know who else is involved, only that you were to be kept away from Whitby at all costs."

  Miss Boston slowly rose, her mind filled with apprehensions. "The children," she muttered, "what about them?"

  Patricia pressed her hand to her chest, a creeping pain was eating through her. "You must go back to them Alice!" she urged.

  "But what about you?"

  "I don't matter any more!" Mrs Gunning shifted on the bed. Hidden beneath the folds of her nightdress was a squarish bundle and she brought it out thrusting it into Miss Boston's hands.

  The old lady took it and a tear fell down her face.

  "You know what it is?" asked Patricia in a rasping voice.

  Miss Boston nodded. "Your Book of Shadows," she answered sorrowfully.

  "A witch's most valuable possession," coughed Mrs Gunning, "all my knowledge, everything that I knew about the craft—even some secrets you never managed to worm out of me, Alice..." She gasped for breath as the pain increased and Miss Boston knelt to hold her. "Deacon never found it!" she choked. "Always searched, though—beware her Alice! Take care of my book, take care of the children and... forgive me..."

  The frail woman let out a long, agonised breath and collapsed in Miss Boston's arms.

  "Patricia!" the old lady called. "Patricia!"

  But Mrs Gunning was dead, troubled no longer by the wearisome world.

  Miss Boston hung her head and kissed her dear friend goodbye. For some minutes she didn't move, too overcome by grief to do anything. Then, as she collected herself, she gently lifted the body and laid Patricia on the bed.

  In death, the woman looked radiant; free of all care, her face seemed to regain the glow of youth and the savage bruising no longer marred her skin. With her silver hair flowing about her she looked like a warrior queen from some distant time, noble and proud, descended from saints and kings.

  Miss Boston held the Book of Shadows to her breast and sorrowfully murmured, "Blessed be Patricia."

  But there would be time to mourn later, for her heart was filled with fear—fear for the children and, if she would admit it, fear for herself.

  "Come on, Alice," she said, "pull yourself together—you're a match for any malicious matron!" Stil
l clasping Patricia's book, she scurried from the room.

  In her bare feet, Miss Boston hurried down to the first floor landing. It was dark there. Ugly black shadows slashed across the carpet, forming ghastly shapes over the panelled walls—a dismal, fearful place. A chill draught blew up from the cold marble of the hall far below and she braced herself for the unexpected; anything could be hiding in those deep shadows.

  Stepping carefully past the sickroom the old lady hastened for the alcove where the telephone stood upon a small table. It was horrible being there in the dark, she had never been afraid of it before, but here, in this house, it was different. Her shoulder blades itched as if someone was watching her but, although she kept looking round, Miss Boston failed to see anything. Gingerly she lifted the receiver, the buzz of the dialling tone seemed unbearably loud and she nearly replaced it to keep from disturbing the heavy silence.

  With a trembling finger, she dialled the code for Whitby and then the number of the police station there. "Please answer," she whispered. "Hurry! poor Benjamin and Jennet—heaven knows what might be happening to them!"

  The ringing stopped abruptly at the other end of the line and a voice answered, "Police, how can I help you?"

  "Thank goodness," sighed Miss Boston gratefully—she had almost feared the town had disappeared. "Listen to me," she began in a hushed voice, "this is Alice Boston. I know it's late but you must go to my cottage—I have reason to believe something terrible is... hello... hello..." They had been cut off.

  She rattled the receiver cradle in panic. "Hello?" she cried, her voice rising in alarm. Not a sound came from the ear-piece—the line had gone dead.

  Miss Boston slowly turned. "You," she muttered.

  Standing on the dark landing was Judith Deacon. The large woman's face was a picture of anger and hatred. Dangling limply from her hands was the severed telephone cord.

  "I couldn't permit that!" she growled. "We can't have you spoiling it all now can we, Miss Boston? Where is Mrs Gunning? She was very naughty, flitting off like that."

  "Patricia's dead," the old lady told her accusingly, "and as soon as I get in touch with the constabulary I shall tell them exactly what you have done!"