Magda: A Darkly Disturbing Occult Horror Trilogy - Book 3

by Sarah England

  And then suddenly it was real.

  It was like, how can I explain this – like a waking dream? There was fresh air on my face and I could hear birds singing. I was me, a real person, but in a totally different time and place, seeing things through different eyes. And there’s a woman walking towards me. If I said a massive 3D cinema screen with surround sound that would relate it dead on: this young girl coming out of a rushing river on a summer’s day… She’s got long, dark wet hair and all her clothes are see-through, and I felt excited even though I didn’t want to be and full of lust like you would not believe, like I’ve never felt before – violent – and then just as the dream faded and the hard, cold stone was in my back again I heard a whisper, a kind of nasty snickering in my ear… and I might have imagined it but I don’t think so. Someone, a woman’s voice, said, “Ah, so that’s his weakness.”

  Anyway, the next thing I remember I was outside and there were flashing blue lights everywhere.”

  ***

  Chapter Ten

  Bridesmoor

  October, 1583

  Magda’s mother dragged her inside by the hair and threw her against the kitchen table.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t find out? That I wouldn’t hear what they’re all saying about you? You’re the village harlot, Magda! Everyone’s talking about it – why Cicely and not you? To think I kept asking myself over and over again – why? Well, by God we know now, don’t we?”

  The slap whooshed through the air, cut into the side of her face and knocked her sideways.

  Magda buckled onto a chair. “What do you mean?”

  Her mother leaned in close, gripping Magda’s shoulders with her rough, calloused hands and shook her. “You and ’im, you evil little bitch. How could you? What kind of low life, nasty piece of work does that make you, Magda?”

  Magda thought fast. Who was she talking about – William or Ambrose? Had someone seen them? How had this happened?

  Her mother took a step back, her normally kind face contorted into a sneer, shouting until her face turned puce. “I always knew I shouldn’t have taken you on. You were a bad ’un right from the start. I should’ve bloody known. Me and my soft heart – and this is where it got me.”

  “What? I don’t understand.”

  But even as she flinched from the harsh words, she knew. Deep down, had always known. She didn’t fit in and never had.

  Outside the bruised sky dipped rapidly into the inkiness of night and a sharp gust of wind rattled the window pane, whistling under the door. “You’re with child I expect? You’d ’ave to be.”

  Magda searched her mother’s eyes – the light blue of a summer morning, deeply set in ruddy cheeks. So like Cicely. So like her brothers. “T…t…took me on?” She stuttered. “Who am I then?”

  “And that’s your main concern, is it?” She shook her head. “Well, all I can say is I’m glad you’re not my flesh and blood. You can get out, you murdering little witch. I don’t want you under my roof another minute. It makes me sick to look at you.”

  “I need to know who I am.”

  “Pack your bags and get out of my house. Get as far away as you can an’ all because if I find you I’ll thrash you to the bone, so help me God.”

  A sheet of rain lashed against the window. “But where will I go?”

  “Try the father of your child. Oh, now let me think – which one could that be?”

  Magda stood up, shivering as she edged out of the kitchen. Who had started this gossip about her? Ambrose could not expose her without there being a rebound on himself so why would he have done that? And why would William?

  “Probably any one of the men in this village for all I know,” her mother raged on. “You’re no daughter of mine, Magda. I brought you up to be respectable, fed and clothed you, and this is how you’ve repaid me. When I think of my poor, beautiful Cicely…with her throat cut so you could go whoring round the village. Oh just get out.” She picked up the nearest object to hand, a washing mangle, and threw it hard in Magda’s direction, screaming until her throat was hoarse. “Get out! Get out! Get out!”

  With no time to grab anything except the cloak she’d left on the table barely moments before, Magda stumbled into the muddy yard just as thunder rumbled in the distance and rain spat needles into the dirt. Where would she go? How had her mother found out? Had someone seen her with William? But how, in that dark, silent forest on the private land he owned? And apart from that first time, with Ambrose it had been in the haunted woods on the other side of the common, where no one else dared to go. So, how then? How and who?

  Blindly, she hurried down the lane past the cottages - many with crosses now daubed across their doors. The plague had spread from town after all, the crops had failed, and the hungry, frightened villagers were no doubt looking for a scapegoat. Had they sacrificed the wrong girl and displeased the gods? That’s what they’d be thinking. Fear clouded her mind, stabbing at her urgently. Ambrose. Should she go to him? Surely he would put them right and deny these vicious rumours? It would be in his interests to do so. Yes, he had to. If he didn’t she could be hanged. The mob would come for her and surely he didn’t want that? Not if he felt a shred of affection for her? He could say she had been attacked in town and made with child, that he was taking her in out of religious compassion…there would be some story he could concoct: the villagers believed anything he said.

  Yes, yes, that would work.

  His cottage was the last one in a row, next to the church. With her head down against the prevailing storm she hurried up the path to his door and banged with her fists. “Ambrose, it’s me! I need to speak with you.”

  The downpour was now intensifying, bouncing off the path, forming puddles around her feet and she gasped from the force of it, water streaming down her face. Why wasn’t he answering? Was he not in?

  Picking up her skirts she tramped over to the window and from there could see him clearly – relaxing by the fire with a glass of mead. She banged on the window. His little Jack Russell sat up and whined, yet still he gazed into the flames without turning to see who it was causing such a commotion.

  “Ambrose! Ambrose!” Why did he not hear her? “Ambrose!” She ran to the back door and hammered on it until her knuckles bled, rattling it against the bolts. “Ambrose! Ambrose!”

  Running back to the window she banged on it repeatedly. Still he did not turn round, but continued to sip his mead as if stone deaf; calmly and deliberately ignoring her.

  Finally, she understood. Stopped. Her palm flat to the pane. The bastard had thrown her to the wolves.

  Retreating from the soft glow of lamplight, her thoughts raced. He would save himself, would he not? Laying the blame at her door for all the disease, starvation and poverty in the village – convincing the villagers she had bewitched him in order to save her own skin. And look what happened to witches. The witch-finders were in the north now and no lone woman was safe from persecution: her only course would be to marry quickly. The plan had always been to wed William – his wife was sickly from miscarriage after miscarriage, so it had only been a matter of time, of waiting. Alas, that time had run out.

  Real fear gripped her stomach. She must get to him. He would help her, take her in. Soon Lisbet would die and everyone knew it. Then when she was his wife no one could touch her. Between them they could do this – have what they both wanted so badly. Only Lisbet stood in the way. Yes, she must get to him, he would know what to do – he loved her. He loved her…

  Carrions Wood faced the church and she sprinted across the lane towards it, darting under cover of the dripping trees. The instant she stepped in, the ancient woodland enveloped her within its quiet tomb, rainwater trickling from the leaves in splashes as she hurried along the path. With no moonlight or stars to lead the way, she grasped at sodden branches, stumbling over tree roots as the fullness of the storm circled overhead, closing in. Although it was the same journey she took almost nightly to meet her lover, this time the darkness
was total, and underfoot treacherous. Slipping sharply onto her hip, she was forced to slow down as she picked her way through the undergrowth, rainwater now coursing down her face, her hands muddy and bleeding. Some twenty minutes later, panting with exertion, she stopped to listen. Yes, the rushing brook could just be heard over the rhythmic drumming of the rain. Almost there…Feverishly she picked up pace again. How his dark eyes would glitter when he realised she had come to him, could be under the same roof…maybe in the guise of a nurse or maid to his wife until… Oh, her death must be hastened. She had power over this brutal, angry man; had something he needed more than life itself.

  Overhead, blue flashes lit up the craggy rocks on the moors as the edge of the forest gave way to fields. Breathlessly, blinking away raindrops, she leaned against the great oak – their oak - looking across at Tanners Dell. What a place. Excitement fizzed somewhere deep inside, swelling her heart…and she could be mistress here.

  If only Lisbet would die. Why wouldn’t she die? Last time, right here by this very tree, he’d said he could do nothing about the fact she was pregnant because he had a wife. But if he didn’t have one, what then? She had put the question teasingly, sucking her finger before slowly extracting it from her moist, full lips, then tracing it down her neck to the top button of her dress; watching the lust blacken his eyes, the thin lips twist into a grimace. He had pushed her down again roughly, hitching up her skirts once more. “But I do, you conniving little witch. I do have one.”

  For the longest time she stood with her back to the tree. The pounding, racing brook had burst its banks, spilling onto the grass in a tide of foam, turning Tanners Dell into an island with three sides now surrounded by swirling water. And most of the windows were in darkness, apart from the lower one, where William would no doubt be sitting by a fire, maybe with a candle at his desk, scratching away at the endless accounts he complained of?

  She would tap at the window. He would hurry to the door, pull her inside holding a finger to his lips so as not to wake the wife upstairs, peel away her wet clothes in front of the flames, then lay her down to love her with all the force of that uncontrollable passion she found so exciting. The ache deep inside her swelled and pulsed. Perhaps even now his thoughts were of her, on how the storm would keep them apart tonight? Would he come out looking with a lantern held high like he had before, throwing stones at her bedroom window because his lust was up?

  The storm was directly overhead now. Staccato flashes of jagged electricity broke through thunderous clouds, illuminating the mill. With the urge to run to him overwhelming, she sprinted from the cover of the trees just as another crack of thunder ripped through the night sky. And with her back to the stone wall, a smile picked up the corners of her lips. Oh, the sweet anticipation. Would he love her while his wife slept on upstairs? He was hers she was sure of it - as confident of that as she had ever been about anything. She had one power and it was time to use it.

  Peeping through the window, she cupped her hands. Candlelight flickered along the walls but the fireside chair was empty. She turned round again. Perhaps he had gone out of the room momentarily? A boom of thunder shook the ground and static filled the air, followed by the sound of a tree splintering not too far away. Her heart was galloping… The night sky lit up with forks of silver, the rainfall now so violent it was pummelling the earth, bouncing off it in sprays.

  As the thunder grumbled in retreat she ventured another look inside. The fire was crackling healthily in the grate, flames licking high. Magda frowned. He would not have left it like that, and it was far too early for him to retire.

  So where was he?

  Her gaze was drawn to the floor then. And for a good few minutes she stared, unable to comprehend. Looking at the bodies entwined on the hearth rug. At his fingers coiled around his wife’s long, red curls; and the small, white hands clinging to his naked back.

  No, this could not be. He didn’t still do this with her, he couldn’t…

  As the rain continued to pour steadily down her face, dripping from her hair, saturating her cloak and pooling around her feet, she began to back away.

  He had used her. Lied. Taken what he wanted then treated her like nothing, casting her out to starve or be hanged as a witch – leaving her out here to die.

  ***

  Chapter Eleven

  Ruby

  Drummersgate Forensic Unit

  September, 2016

  “Dear Lord, please protect me while I talk to Spirit. I ask Spirit only because I have no other way and I badly need help. I mean no harm. Please protect me from all negative forces. Thank you Lord, Amen.”

  She comes to me quickly. She is a feeling, a presence. And we talk silently in my head; without words.

  “Celeste, thank you. There’s something very wrong, I know there is. Please will you show me what I need to see?”

  As always, the impression of what she conveys is vague and tinny, transmitted in waves on a weak radio signal. She is asking about Alice. Is it about Alice?

  “Yes, yes – the higher purpose, what they want with her.”

  My head is thumping; the others don’t want me to do this and leave them alone again. It is a risk, I agree, but I have to find out. God will protect us. The younger ones are trembling, whimpering, running down the corridors and slamming doors; our body lying on the bed swathed in a grid of moonlight. Just a girl – a mad girl – on a single bed made up with white sheets; a girl no one knows and who no one can predict because she’s fractured into many parts. But she has a soul. She has a spirit. And she has a reason. We all have a reason.

  Celeste is shushing me – it’s time – lifting my spirit to show the way, to where I can see…it’s like falling but she has me now and… Oh, it’s very sudden. Instant.

  The image is at once of night. A full moon shimmers over a large Georgian house squatting darkly behind wrought iron gates. It’s still warm but there’s a nip, and wood smoke lingers in the air, decaying leaves…perfume…

  Something is happening at the house…

  The image flickers and dies. No!

  “Celeste, please help me. Is this where they took Alice?”

  It is.

  “Do they bring other children here?”

  Yes.

  “Did I come here?”

  No.

  “So this is recent?”

  No.

  “Celeste, please show me, please, please…”

  I don’t understand. My conscious mind keeps cutting in and I sense Celeste’s impatience. I have broken the trance, and now a vivid dream hovers on the periphery of my mind and I can’t get it back. “Celeste, I have to know, I have to–”

  Child, do what you’ve been taught.

  I close my eyes once more, breathing slowly and deeply, relaxing each muscle from the top down…distancing myself from all thoughts and emotions, standing still in time…until finally it comes. The dazzling, brilliant light of Spirit streams in like sunshine through a cathedral window….its beauty and power breath-taking…And this time, when the vision comes it is with a voltage that wipes me blind.

  Immediately I’m back at the house – inside now – with candlelight dancing across dark walls. It’s a spectacularly opulent dining room with floor to ceiling mirrors. The women reflected wear sparkling, plunging evening gowns and elaborate headdresses. But I appear to be sweeping through at a brisk pace, whisking past hundreds, if not thousands of flickering candles. Flames leap from candelabras and chandeliers, burning fiercely on great iron pillars, lighting the way from room to room and multiplied in a dazzling corridor of black glass. I am the light chill breezing past people hiding behind masks; the shiver making them touch the back of their necks - this strange brew of eclectic folk who imbibe from goblets, smoke from pipes and murmur excitedly.

  Something is happening…Something is coming. The atmosphere pulsates with it.

  But I am in a rush it seems…leaving the heady, incense-fuelled rooms to waft out of patio doors…now sweeping d
own a silvery lawn…blowing through trees in a flutter of leaves along a dark, snaking path. Until all at once it is before me. What I am here to see.

  A black lake glitters with flecks of starlight, whispering oaks mirrored in its depths. And to the side, shrouded by forest, a stage has been set.

  I am the draft blowing torch fire sidelong, causing the hooded men to shudder and turn. I do not pause, though, to see what lowlife is here. That is not the purpose. Here is the purpose: a large pentacle has been etched into the ground, lit at each fifth elemental point with a flame; and at the head of this is a magnificent altar set either side with six foot candles on stone columns. On the altar table a black Bible awaits. And a long, silver sword.

  I recognise this. I’m falling.

  No, Ruby, you wanted to see…

  “Marie, help me.”

  The scene shuts down faster than a plug being pulled. And now there is nothing but the reality of the bars at the window, and the stars so very far away.

  I hear Marie asking repeatedly if this is for Alice.

  But our energy has drained and we are freezing. There is a brief flash, just a feeling, of Alice in her bed looking out of a window at the same sky as me.

  Alice…I will find you…

  For the most fleeting of moments the soft blue of her eyes meet mine. And then she’s gone.

  ***

  Chapter Twelve