by Blake Croft
The Wishing Box
~ ~ ~
By Blake Croft and Ashley Raven
Copyright © 2018 by Blake Croft
Book Description
When your secret dreams become real-life nightmares… there’s no waking up.
Diana McCullough has been waiting. Watching. For the one thing that can change her life. The one thing that’s always been just out of her reach. Until now.
When Diana McCullough comes into possession of a magic wishing box, she believes her luck has finally changed. But soon she’ll discover that the distance between her expectations and a disturbing reality is rapidly narrowing.
She’s unearthed something dangerous. And it wants more than Diana’s life. But how do you outrun and outsmart what isn’t really there?
The macabre comes to sinister life in this small Scottish village in October 1976. Gothic horror, suspense, and a haunted possession will leave you sleeping with the lights on until your own Wishing Box arrives. Then you won’t be able to sleep at all.
Foreword
This series is dedicated to you, the reader.
Thank you for taking a chance on us, and for joining us on this journey.
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Blake Croft
Prologue
Forest Road, Marywell Village – Scotland
12th October 1976
Steven had to bury her to be sure nobody ever found her. He squinted through the fog, glancing surreptitiously in the rearview mirror to make sure he wasn’t being followed. Steven drove slowly, the pea-souper made visibility poor, something he was banking on.
Deep into the forest, along a clearing, Steven stopped the stolen car. He sat a moment in the cold dark interior of the car, staring at the thick mist trailing out of the forest like reaching fingers. His breathing was shaky on each exhale, pregnant with unshed tears. It was exactly this weakness she had preyed on. The evil bitch.
Steven hauled the shovel placed on the front passenger seat, and he stepped out into the fog. Condensation peppered his skin, and he felt soaked within minutes. A sudden cry from the forest made him drop the shovel with a clang. Heart hammering in chest, Steven swallowed.
“Must be an animal or something.” He wiped the sweat off his forehead. Ignoring the chill, he picked up the shovel and his load, and trudged towards the forest.
It was strange how sound echoed in the mist. His footsteps resounded back, making the nape of his neck prickle as if he was being pursued. Straining his head forward, he hunched his shoulders, and ignored the instinct to keep looking behind him for any sign of the authorities rushing at him through the forest.
Steven stopped under an old oak tree, its trunk thick and the roots arching out of the ground like the backs of frightened cats. It was as good a spot as any to bury her. No one would find her here, and the horror would end.
With a grunt, Steven dug between a knot of roots. His arms ached, and his hands were raw by the time he stepped back from the neat hole. Getting down on his knees, Steven pulled a box out of his pockets. His jaw clenched tighter as he looked at the box. He stared down at her. Hateful, malevolent, spiteful her.
Steven had tried to burn her, to burn the bitch, but she didn’t catch. The fire danced around her, producing noxious smoke. She had refused to burn.
That cursed box.
It, or rather she, wasn’t a mere object. She was small enough to fit the palm of his hand. The wood was carved with birds and flowers around a single command, ‘Make a Wish.’ He was convinced a malicious she-demon possessed the box, seducing unsuspecting owners into depravity and ruin. With an animal cry, Steven threw the box inside the hole. He had to make sure no one would find her.
Steven filled the hole in with his bare hands, his palms stinging but he didn’t pay them much attention. Once he had patted the earth down and scattered fallen leaves on top, he got back to his feet, knees creaking in pain.
Finding the way back to the car was harder than he had thought. Twice, he got lost and wondered if the evil box had the ability to trap him in the dark forest to die. He cursed himself for not leaving the car’s headlights on as a marker, but he couldn’t have the police finding him so soon. He finally stumbled on the forest road, the outline of the car dim in the mist that had crept out of the forest to consume it. He thought he saw something moving between the trees. His keys rattled together, scratching the side of the car as he tried to get to the lock. Steven’s eyes darted to the tree line to make sure he hadn’t been seen.
Sirens blared closer. The police were on the move again. He had to leave before they caught up with him. He couldn’t get arrested here. Not so close to where he’d buried her.
Once the key found the lock, Steven rushed inside the car. He started the engine and tore down the road he had come from, not caring about the poor visibility, and his gaze continuously drawn to the rearview mirror.
Chapter One
Marywell Village – Scotland
7th October 1976 – Five days earlier
The McCullough cottage was small and remote, nestled in a hollow of land surrounded by spreading fields. A crow sat on the tiled roof, cawing at the passing of the few cars and people. No sounds came from the house. Smoke blew out from the chimney, the only sign that the cottage was occupied.
Inside, Diana couldn’t take her eyes off the cake. It was the most expensive item of food she had ever seen. In comparison, her kitchen looked shabby and worse for wear than it actually was. The cake had three layers, each put together with a mountain of icing, and topped with sugar flowers. Placing one last covetous finger on the cardboard box, Diana turned to the rest of the groceries Peter had brought from Arbroath.
There was more produce than Diana could ever afford; fresh raspberries, potatoes, peas and carrots, with a fine shank of lamb. She put away half to use later in the week. After placing the stale bread and cheese from the morning into the pigs’ slop pail, she began preparing supper. The radio blasted the latest news on the American elections and President Gerald Ford’s confidence at the lack of Soviet influence on Eastern Europe.
“Ma!” Peter’s head popped in through the kitchen door. “Pa and I are going for a walk along the beach.”
“You tell your Pa you get enough of the sea on that oil rig of yours.”
Peter laughed, and Diana could see how much he had changed in the six months he had been on the job. His skin was several shades darker. The laugh lines around his eyes were deeper, and his lean frame had become broader. Her son had gone to the North Sea a boy, and he came back a man.
“I suspect he wants to show me off in the village along the way.” Peter picked a handful of raspberries.
“And why would he nae?” Diana beamed with pride. “A son on the oil rig, that’s something to boast of in this village.”
“And I woulnae rob you of such an opportunity. Did you know Adam Campbell is also applying for a place on the BP rig? Baldrick, the recruiter, told me of it in Arbroath this morning.”
Diana sniffed. Her mouth pressed in a thin, disapproving line. “Aye, he’s a capable enough lad, but he has no head for tricky situations. Best he doesn’t get it for his own sake.”
Footsteps shuffled behind Peter, and Steven’s florid face poked in the doorframe.
“Smells grand!” He grinned.
“Now if only the kitchen were grander,” Diana remarked. Steven’s smile fell and his brow darkened. His eyes held reproach and he glanced at Peter, as if apologizing for Diana. A bolt of intense anger flared in Diana’s chest.
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br /> Peter either didn’t notice, or chose to ignore the exchange between his parents, and bent down to kiss Diana on the crown of her head where her brown hair was white and thinning. “Be back soon.”
Diana waved them goodbye, then got back to cutting vegetables. Once the shank was in for roasting and the potatoes set to boil, Diana wiped her brow and stepped out in the back garden to have a smoke. It was a vegetable garden, where she tended her pumpkins. They were prized in all of Marywell. They were coming along well, and they would be ready to harvest in another week.
She took a long drag on her cigarette and looked skyward. The clouds were so low it seemed they would graze the top of the roof if they wished. The windows were dark and reflected the oppressive sky.
The taste of the tobacco was smooth, and she marveled at the luxury of a good cigarette. She looked at her yellowing nails, and then the patch of land in her backyard where she spent most of her day breaking her back to produce vegetables she could never eat, because the money they brought in was far more precious.
It had been a hard life for Diana, born between two World Wars. She spent her youth amidst food rations, and the spot of Blitz in Scotland, only to survive the ordeal to find the whole nation changed, and not for the better. But she was reaping the rewards now. Having a son on the oil rig meant a fortune in the bank, and goodness knows she deserved this good turn.
She had only one child, no thanks to Steven who would have had a litter. It was Diana’s foresight, her insistence that she could neither put in the work nor the money that more than one child would cost. So there was just Peter, and they had sacrificed every comfort and luxury for the future of their son.
“And lang may his lum reek.” She puffed her wish up to the sky in tobacco smoke.
Diana inhaled deeply, as she watched a figure detach from the uniform shadows of the woods across the way, and hobble along the McNally’s wheat field.
For a moment Diana thought the woman was an acquaintance from the village, come to gossip about something trivial in the hopes of being invited to dinner; but then she saw the black skirt embroidered with large, gay flowers, a shawl in every color of the rainbow, and heard the tinkling of silver bangles.
“Bonnie day, aye?” The woman waved her hand in greeting, and Diana saw that she was very old and stooped, encumbered by a filthy bag on one of her shoulders. A mild wind would spirit her away.
“Aye.” Diana wondered if she could simply scuff out her cigarette and get back inside, but she was loath to waste the smoke.
“Your house is it?”
“Aye.”
“Smells dandy. Can you spare an old woman a tattie?”
Diana’s goodwill was limited, and only extended to her family, so she did not appreciate the begging of a feast she had prepared meticulously for her loved ones. Yet, the woman looked dead on her shoes and Diana wouldn’t have it people say she’d turned an old woman away from her door.
Diana stalked into the kitchen, her lips in her customary thin line. She took the stale bread and cheese from the slop pail, and she didn’t bother putting it on a plate. She walked out and handed the two items to the woman sitting on the broken stone wall in the back garden.
“Thank ‘ee.”
The woman sniffed at the smells coming from the kitchen, pierced Diana with a quizzical look and began to eat her frugal meal.
“Having a feast, are we?” Bits of cheese were stuck to the corner of the woman’s mouth. A strikingly red tongue darted out to retrieve the crumbs.
“Aye.” Diana finished her cigarette and crushed it under her heel. “My son has come back from the oil rig in the North Sea.”
“North Sea is it? I heard jobs there are dangerous.”
“Aye, but my Peter is very skilled.” Diana rubbed her chest, a twinge of pain making her wince. Her indigestion had become more frequent off late.
“Ye must be very proud.”
“We are.”
“Well then, that’s decided.” The woman brushed the crumbs off her hands, her lips smacking up the last morsel. She plunged a wizened hand into her bag, rummaging inside till she found what she was looking for. Diana expected it to be some cheap cloth, or worthless medallion, but the woman was holding a small cedar box, the size of a tin of sardines. “A present for you, for your generosity.”
“I don’t need a dirty old box.”
“Oh, nae.” The old woman’s laugh became a hacking cough, the hand clutching the box looked like a claw. “It’s nae just a box. It’s a wishing box.”
Diana snorted. “Does it have a genie?”
“Nae such nonsense as that. It makes your wish come true, although at a certain cost. Please accept it as a token of me thanks.”
Diana took the little box without inspecting it. She supposed she could use it to put her hairpins in.
She watched the old woman hobble out of her backyard, keeping wary eye on her claw-like hands lest they try and nip a carrot out of her garden. Once the woman was away from the house, Diana turned back to her kitchen.
About to throw the box in the bin, Diana paused. She looked at the gift more carefully. It fit in the palm of her hand, and she was curiously heavy for such a small thing. It was carved intricately with designs of birds, and flowers that spelled out the command ‘Make a Wish.’ It was quite beautiful now that Diana looked at it, and she wondered what it was worth.
She opened the box. The lining within was scarlet silk. It smelled strangely of almonds. The hair on the back of her neck prickled. The open box seemed to demand a wish, as if Diana had disturbed a sleeping goddess, and it was annoyed. She shook her head, telling herself she was being ridiculous, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the empty box.
Her eyes grew heavy and she could hear a gentle rustling from a great distance like dried leaves swept across the grass by a strong wind.
“Och, all right, how about a bunch of grapes, then?”
Nothing happened. Grapes didn’t suddenly materialize in the box, or on the kitchen counter, or anywhere at all. Diana snorted with derision that she had believed the woman. Bitter regret bloomed in her spine at having wasted food that could have been used more productively.
Diana closed the box with a decisive snap and threw it on the top shelf to clatter against the wall, still fuming at being made a fool.
The smell of smoke underneath the savory scent of roasted lamb made her turn to the stove. Smoke was billowing out of the saucepan she had been using to make custard in.
“God damn that gypsy woman for keeping me from my stove for too long.” Flustered, Diana spilled most of the burnt contents on the kitchen floor. Cursing under her breath, she placed the ruined custard under the faucet in the kitchen sink then went out and threw the contents into the patch of garden where wildflowers usually grew in the spring.
She began clearing up the mess on the floor, her mind racing from the conniving old Romani who had hoodwinked her, to the look Steven had given her. A strange buzz grew louder as the seconds passed. A trapped fly droned by before hitting the window glass, plink plink.
Dark thoughts clouded her mind as if summoned by the sound. It irked her that Steven could never understand her desire for a more comfortable life. She had lived a life deferred, always delaying her own happiness to fulfill the needs of Peter’s upbringing. When was the last time she had bought a pretty dress, or taken a ride on the Ferris wheel when the carnival came around? No, buying Peter a winter coat was more important. Paying for his books was more important, making sure he enjoyed the carnival came first.
Peter, Peter, Peter. Always Peter. Diana scrubbed the floor with brush and soapy water, grunting at the exertion, her face red with effort and anger. Ever since I gave birth to him, I stopped existing altogether for Steven. I was Peter’s mother, his maid, his tutor, his cook… what about me? He never thinks of me. Peter, Peter, Peter. I suppose he would say it was my fault he fell so madly in love with Peter because I refused to give him more children. When will he see tha
t I have been denied so much in my life?
With an angry roar, Diana flung the brush across the kitchen to clatter against the far wall. Her hands were shaking by her side, her shoulders rising and falling with every noisy breath she took. Her nostrils were flared, and teeth bared, her eyes brimming with frustrated tears.
And that’s how Tim Baird found her.
“Mrs. McCullough?” The seven-year-old boy looked frightened.
Diana was startled. She looked at her shaking red hands as if she were noticing them for the first time. Did she really feel this way about her son? “Aye, Tim, I’ll only be a minute.” She wiped her eyes and got to her feet the heavy feeling of confusion was a fog in her mind. “How are you this afternoon, lad?”
“I’m fine, Mrs. McCullough.” The boy was holding a small cardboard box. “Ma sent me to give you these. Da brought a small crate of ‘em from Dundee, and Ma wanted to share with the neighbors on account of it being neighborly.”
“A crate of what?” Diana asked, taking the box, her mind still on her actions of two minutes ago. But Tim, errand done and frightened of what he had seen, was already running away.
Diana stared after the thin boy, malicious anger boiling inside her. Leave it to Mrs. Baird to send something worthless just to pass it off that she was the generous one in the village, while Diana by comparison was stingy. She knew well that this box was to take the pleasure out of Diana’s recent fortune, and the feast she was making and had no intentions of sharing.
“I bet it’s a pair of old socks.” Diana removed the lid, and gasped.
Fat purple grapes sat nestled amongst tissue paper, the heady smell of them filling her nostrils. Diana stared after Tim, but the boy had gone.
How was this possible? Where had Mr. Baird got the money to buy a small crate of grapes, and in the middle of autumn? And why grapes? Why the fruit that Diana had made a silly wish for? Surely it couldn’t be because of the box, which was just a box, nothing more.