The Bitter End

by Ann Evans

  Paul stood helplessly by, then realised he'd only got his briefs on and dashed upstairs to dress, ready to go with Sal in the ambulance. The paramedic wanted details of what had happened. He hesitated, not sure how much to say, but aware that they needed to know that she’d just behaved totally out of character.

  As he explained he was aware his story sounded pathetic, as if he was making it up on the spot. He knew they thought he’d pushed her. They didn’t say as much though, but as they drove to the hospital one of the medics mentioned the scratch at the side of his eye that was bleeding, and no doubt they’d seen the scratches on his chest and neck, too.

  ‘You need to get those cleaned up, sir. Scratches can turn septic too easily.’

  At the hospital he went over the events with medical staff, wanting them to check for a seizure, not just the physical injuries. They listened, made notes and looked at him as if he were the worst kind of villain. He half expected the police to be called in to question him.

  It was almost daybreak when the hospital staff had finished assessing her. She had broken three ribs and dislocated her left elbow. To make sure there was no bleeding in the lungs or chest infection, she was going to be laid up in hospital for the best part of the week. They put her in a side ward and when the nurse finally left them alone, Sally turned tear-filled eyes towards him.

  ‘How did I fall, Paul? Was I sleep walking again?’

  He took her hand, inching his chair close to the bed. ‘What do you remember, sweetheart?’

  ‘You, kneeling beside me, and then the paramedics fussing around me.’

  ‘What about before that?’

  She stared up at the ceiling trying to recall. She smiled a tiny shy smile. ‘I remember us making love on the sofa, then I went to bed. That’s it really. Next thing I’m lying at the bottom of the stairs with paramedics all around me.’

  He stroked her hand, thinking how small and fragile it looked between his and his heart swelled with love and protection for her. Only he hadn’t protected her, and he hated himself for letting this happen.

  ‘What?’ she murmured when he didn’t speak. ‘I was sleep walking again, wasn’t I, Paul?’

  ‘In a way,’ he agreed. ‘Sal, don’t you remember getting me excited in the middle of the night, in bed?’

  She laughed, or tried to but her ribs were hurting too much. ‘Again? But we’d only just … you know.’

  Somehow, he kept his voice light. ‘Well we did.’

  ‘No! You must have dreamed it.’ She was half frowning. Then curiously she asked, ‘What did we do?’

  ‘Well I woke up feeling your hands on me, I looked down and you were kneeling between my legs.’

  She gave a little gasp of outrage, clutching her ribcage with the hand that wasn't bundled into a sling. ‘I did not! You were having a horny dream.’

  ‘It was no dream, Sal,’ he said, wishing he didn't have to tell her all this. ‘Everything was fine until you looked me in the eyes. Then things turned pear shaped very quickly and you sort of lashed out at me.’

  Her look of embarrassed amusement slipped away. She was aghast. ‘I hit you?’

  Paul lifted his sweater and showed her the scratches.

  ‘Oh my God!’ She struggled to sit up, to hold him. ‘I did that to you? Oh my God.’ She touched the dried-up blood at the side of his eye and his throat. ‘And all this?’

  He nodded ruefully. ‘A wild banshee was nothing compared to you. I hate to use the word, but it was like you were possessed. It took all my strength to control you. It was as if you weren't you.’

  ‘Perhaps it was some kind of seizure,’ she murmured. ‘They'll be doing a CT scan on me later. Perhaps they'll find something.’

  ‘We'll see what the results show up, but I've got my own thoughts about what's going on here.’

  A frown creased her forehead. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I'm not going into it now, Sal, it’s too off-the-wall, and besides I don’t have any proof. Just trust me – and let’s see what the scan has to say.’

  Paul stayed at her bedside until morning, until the medics had done their rounds and he’d had the opportunity to tell the doctor again that Sally had had some sort of fit, acting totally out of character. The CT scan was scheduled for later in the day.

  Paul had no intention of leaving but he could see the pain killers were working and she was drifting off. She smiled dreamily at him. ‘Paul, why not go home for a while, you must be exhausted.’

  ‘I don’t want to leave you.’

  ‘Go,’ she murmured. ‘Only I’ll have a kiss first, please.’

  He relented, knowing it was the sensible thing to do. She was in the best place. The nurses would keep an eye on her. So, being careful not to put any pressure on her bruised body, he kissed her lightly on the lips. ‘I’ll find out when visiting hours are, and be back then.’

  ‘Lovely. Oh, and Paul, put some food and water down for Bluebell, will you?’

  ‘No problem.’ He blew her another kiss and left.

  21

  7am Thursday 1 November 2018, Oakwoods Residential Care home.

  Look how pleased they are to see me. Leading me indoors, forcing weak tea down my throat. They put me in my bed. I put my hand onto hers, and my essence envelops hers. In control, we reach into Petronella’s pocket and bring out the sweet mix of wolf’s pane, foxglove, hemlock and deadly nightshade gathered on the way here.

  I shall show these morons how to make tea.

  In the kitchen we make the brew. How they love their tea. They drink, their faces contort, they writhe in agony, fall to the floor, clutching their throats, gasping for breath, spewing their guts. Others run to us. We hold the carving knife in our hand, smile as they back away. We force them down the stairs. As they walk ahead of us, we stab through their backs, piercing their hearts.

  We turn, return upstairs and check for life. Extinguish those who struggle to hang onto their pathetic existences, and we slide the blade through their scrawny skin and bones. Finally, we return to Petronella, laying on her bed. We sit. I take Petronella's hand and slip my lifeforce into her for one last time. She has served me well.

  Standing, I place my hand around the nurse's throat, crushing her windpipe. My work here is done. Outside, the morning's air is cool and I sense my Master's pleasure in my work. How favourably he will look on me when this task is totally fulfilled.

  * * *

  Paul took a taxi back to the house. The place felt desolate as he walked in through the front door, remembering, as always, to duck his head. The memory of the time he’d carried Sal over the threshold came to mind – and the searing pain that had shot through his head. He’d never found out what had caused it. A legacy from the time of his coma, he guessed … unless someone was sticking pins into an effigy of him.

  Had it been the old woman, wanting revenge for him tormenting her and killing her cat, or was that just fanciful thinking? As kids they’d thought she was a witch but if she was, why hadn’t she turned him into a toad or something rather than reverting to a good old bash on the brains with a blunt instrument.

  No, he hadn’t been turned into a toad, although there was no getting away from it. For nine months she had turned him into a cabbage.

  He put the kettle on to make himself a coffee and replenished Bluebell’s food and water bowls. There was no sign of her.

  He decided to give her a shout and went to unlock the back door. He stopped in mid flow – the door was already unbolted and unlocked. Yet he'd definitely locked it last night before going to bed. Maybe in the panic of Sal’s accident he’d opened the door for some reason. Had the paramedics gone out that way? He didn’t think so. So why was it unlocked now?

  The shivers started at the nape of his neck and spread rapidly throughout his body. Had someone been in? Was someone still here?

  He ran the bolt across, went silently to the kitchen drawer and took out the biggest carving knife he could find. He moved softly across the kitchen, push
ing the living room door wider. Nothing seemed out of place, although had he left the cushions that way? The curtains were closed, and he crept silently towards them, half expecting to see the toes of someone’s shoes poking out from beneath.

  There was nothing, and he pulled the curtains back with the knife still gripped fiercely in his hand. The grey morning light brightened the room, making it feel normal. Only it wasn’t normal, Sally wasn’t here … maybe someone else was.

  He tiptoed towards their workroom, alert to the fact that someone could have got in to check out the security details for the Peace Conference on his computer. His thoughts took a new turn. Had someone got in during the night, maybe injected Sally with some kind of hallucinatory drug to ensure she kept him occupied while they rifled through his computer files, downloaded anything and everything onto memory sticks and made off through the back door?

  That suddenly seemed the answer, the logical explanation. He pushed open the workroom door and stood there, taking in the room, trying to see if anything had been moved, if his desk was as he’d left it. He breathed deeply like an animal trying to pick up on any unusual scents left by a stranger. But it smelt the same, that smell of leather. His computer was off. He turned it on and checked the PC’s recent history, knowing what documents should be listed, half expecting to find that list to be random and wrong as if someone else had been browsing. His paranoia was really high. But it was all in order. It still didn’t stop him feeling that anyone spying would have checked his file history first and made sure that it was left in the same order. He searched further back in his files but found nothing out of sequence. Going onto his emails he saw that the latest ones from his office hadn’t been opened. Surely any spy or terrorist worth his salt wouldn’t have been able to resist reading those. But of course they could have, and simply marked them as unread again.

  He went through the rest of the house, checking every room and cupboard, the carving knife still gripped tightly in his left hand. There was no one there, and he finally had to realise that the mistake had been his. He hadn’t locked up last night. Simple as that.

  He put the knife back in the drawer and made himself a strong black coffee and went online. Maybe Google would know something about witches and demonic possessions. He set about finding out.

  It soon became obvious that, according to folklore, witches did have powers and could harm people, in fact anything was possible, but none of it held any solid proof. He needed time to consider all this. In his practical world he dealt with problems as they came along, physical problems, not mystical spiritual stuff you couldn't get your hands on.

  Deep down, he found it hard to believe these things were truly due to witchcraft, although there was certainly something unexplainable going on. Needing some fresh air, he went through to the kitchen, opened the back door and stood looking at the garden. There was a chill to the pale morning light. The grass shimmered with frosty dew and Sally’s flowers and shrubs looked wilted and sad.

  He called Bluebell’s name twice, aware of how hollow his voice sounded in the silence. The forest was changing colour, leaves turning yellow and bronze, branches becoming skeletal. He finished his coffee, put the cup in the sink and went back outside. As he walked across the wet grass he spotted a little grey squirrel. It stopped abruptly in whatever it was doing to look at him, standing on hind legs before scampering off towards the woods. It was the same direction he was heading in. He didn’t know if he was going to do any woodcarving, maybe it would relax him.

  He entered the barn, immediately breathing in the familiar scent of cut wood. As his eyes fell on the axe on the far wall, he knew why he’d come down here. It would make an ideal deterrent against intruders. He strode down the centre of the barn and lifted the axe from where it hung, surprised that it seemed heavier than usual. Maybe he was more tired than he thought. In the past, when he’d regularly carried it into the forest, he’d managed to hold it in one hand or rest it easily over his shoulder. Now it felt its weight, now it took both hands to heave it down and then it slumped with a thud on the floor.

  It was unbelievably heavy. Perhaps this fatigue was down to his lack of sleep – and the mental anguish of all that had gone on. He heaved it up into both hands, aware of the pull to his shoulders as if his arms were being dragged from their sockets because of its weight.

  He turned back towards the barn door, determined that he’d get the blasted thing back to the house if it killed him. This was insane, he could carry the axe and a lump of oak half a mile, why the hell couldn’t he even drag the axe a few paltry steps now?

  But then he saw what was sitting in the corner behind the open barn door.

  He took a sharp intake of breath. All he could do was stand rigid, heart banging against his ribcage, staring at her – the old woman from the nursing home.

  The witch.

  Petronella Kytella sat upright against the wall, legs spread wide, feet turned upwards, head slumped like a marionette waiting for someone to pull the strings and bring her dancing back to life.

  ‘What the hell …’ Paul could barely get the words out. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  Without a word, without a sound, she looked up at him, her eyes peering through her bedraggled hair, piecing his. He knew straight away. These were the eyes that had looked at him last night, in his bed.

  The hairs stood up on the back of his neck. ‘Explain yourself!’

  She started to cough, a choking, rasping sound, but then the tone changed, turning into a cackle of laughter – a laugh of pure evil.

  He took a step backwards as she started to rise, not using her hands to push herself upwards, just a slow straightening of her crooked body, until she was standing, facing him. As tall as him. His hands tightened around the axe, ready to cleave her in half if she came at him.

  Her laughter stopped as suddenly as it had started. And she spoke. ‘Now, do you see what you are dealing with?’

  With a flick of her bony hand the axe flew out of his grasp, spinning across the barn floor, slamming against the far wall.

  ‘What the …’

  ‘Paul Christian, everything in your life is soon to change.’

  ‘Why are you doing this?’

  Her face contorted. ‘Revenge. You burn Theron, my cat, I burn your wife.’

  ‘My wife?’ He staggered. The pain was back. Searing pain shooting like needles through his skull.

  ‘Pretty Helena, how she squealed.’

  Fingers pressed against his temples, he tried to stem the pain.

  ‘I have watched you for a long, long time, Paul Christian. ‘You can never escape me. You will soon be dancing to my tune.’

  He struggled to stay coherent. ‘All because of your cat, all those years ago?’

  Her mouth contorted to a sneer. ‘You have no idea what a witch's cat means to her.’

  Fighting back the pain, he demanded, ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘What you see before you, is not what you think. I am not Petronella. I just live in her.’

  ‘Talk sense, woman.’

  ‘The next time you see this body, it will be dead.’

  Pain or no pain, Paul moved swiftly, throwing himself towards the axe. He lifted it easily, turned back with it raised above his head. ‘You need certifying …’

  The space where she stood was empty.

  Petronella, or whoever it was, had gone.

  * * *

  Time to take back what is mine. She will come to me. I knock, and step back five paces. The door opens.

  ‘Can you help me?’ I plead in the tone these humans cannot resist. ‘I don't feel well.’

  How anxious she looks. She does not remember. My visits brought me here with the birds, not as a pathetic old woman. I reach out to her. She runs swiftly to me, takes hold of my trembling hands.

  I look into her eyes. ‘I have need of you.’

  My lifeforce slips into this young host, there is no resistance. Mind and body, I possess them both.r />
  From behind vivid green eyes I see Petronella Kytella crumple to her knees, she falls flat to the ground. I roll her onto her back with my foot and look into the face I have possessed for so many years.

  ‘Go Petronella! You are finally free to die.’

  * * *

  Petronella, wife and mother, felt the spirit of Lamia leave her body for the final time. She would not return, she had given her permission to die. Joy filled Petronella’s heart as the black demonic possession bade her farewell.

  Now she breathed in the fresh, cold air as she lay on the soft earth, gazing up at the blue sky. She could smell the sweetness of the grass, hear the rustle of leaves and the sound of birdsong. Free at last.

  Looking up, clouds parted, sunlight shone brilliantly through and she saw people reaching down to her – her son, her husband, her mother and father …

  Happiness flooded through her aged body, and taking one final breath, Petronella departed this earth in peace.

  22

  Paul could think of only one place she might go – back to the care home. Grabbing the axe which amazingly seemed to be back to its normal weight, he ran to where Sally had parked her car. It would normally take twenty minutes to get there but he was going to do it in a lot less time than that.

  Lights were on behind the closed curtains. He rang the bell and banged on the door, no one came. A sense of foreboding forced his hand. He ran back for the axe and slammed it straight through the glass panel and forced his way in.

  With no one at the desk, he recalled the combination code and dashed through to the sitting room. There was no sound, and no movement. But there was a stench of vomit and a metallic smell which could only mean one thing.

  Taking in the scene his urgency dissipated and an intense veil of sorrow settled over him. Paul walked softly towards the old man sitting in the nearest chair. His head was bowed, almost as if he were praying. He recognised the dressing gown as the old wandering guy. Paul checked for a pulse, then realised there'd hardly be one after being stabbed clean through the heart.