by Carrie King
Colborn shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I think so. She said some things about me losing my way and breaking my sword and that’s all come true so far.”
“And the ending?” wheezed the man eagerly, leaning forward so that the torch he held illuminated his cracked and wrinkled face. “What was the ending of the curse?”
“Um, nothing,” said Colborn.
“Nothing?” cackled the man, raising his eyebrows.
“Yes, that’s right,” said Colborn. He figured it was a bad idea to talk about a charred and smoldering end to this group of old men holding torches. “It was just those things about getting lost and breaking my sword. I got fed up of falling in the river; that’s the only reason I want the curse lifted.” He shifted uncomfortably as the men all scrutinized him.
Finally, the first man, who seemed to be the leader came to a decision. “We will accept your sacrifice—”
“Wait, what?” exclaimed Colborn. “My sacrifice?”
“of the armlet,” continued the old man. “You will bury it on that hillside.” He gestured toward a steep hill behind him.
“Bury it?” Colborn couldn’t believe his luck. Maybe after he had buried the armlet and they had lifted the curse, he’d be able to go back and dig it up again. That way he’d get the treasure AND be free of the curse. It was too good to be true. He attempted to school his features into a solemn expression. “I will bury the amulet and do so willingly in the memory of Ainlith—”
“Ailith!” corrected a man on his left.
“Right, Ailith,” continued Colborn. “So, are you all coming to light my way with the torches?”
“We will wait while you perform the sacred task,” intoned the leader.
“Okay then,” said Colborn. “Well, here I go …” He rose and edged through the circle of men who simply stood and gazed at him, then he started up the hill, shaking his head wonderingly.
8
Colborn hadn’t made it far up the hill before he realized that the men had selected wisely in their choice of place for this burial. The hill was steep on the side leading to the valley, and there was a sheer cliff on the other side dropping directly down to the river. It was hard going and he had endured a difficult night. Soon he was panting and groaning as he climbed to the top.
There was a sizeable plateau at the summit where he had a panoramic view of the area and he noticed three peaks standing out among the hills on the other side of the river. The three peaks had strangely square-formed projections at the top, which looked almost like chairs. It was almost as if the three hilltops were thrones for three kings of this land. Strange that he hadn’t noticed them from the valley. Then again, he hadn’t noticed anything much in the valley thanks to the accursed mist.
Slipping the armlet off his arm, he looked around on the ground for a suitable spot to bury it. He didn’t have anything to dig with, but found an animal burrow—this time these blasted holes in the ground are actually useful, he thought to himself—and managed to dig with his hands and pocketknife to make the hollow larger so he could drop the armlet into it.
The gold winked in the moonlight as he dropped it down. Almost as if it was asking him to not leave it in the cold ground. It did seem a shame but he could come back when the old men were gone.
The sound of wings rustled overhead and the caw of a raven had his heart pounding. Quickly he covered the armlet carefully over with earth and stones and then patted it all down.
Rising up and dusting off his hands, he walked over to the side of the plateau where he could see the group of old men with their torches. He raised a hand to signal that he’d completed the task and they lifted their torches in answer.
For a moment, he considered trying to escape down the other side of the hill, but after one look over the edge, he could see a sheer cliff and rocks protruding from the river below. That was a fool's mission, if he fell there, he would be dead.
Those old men would surely be satisfied now that he’d given up the precious armlet, and anyway, he needed to ask them whether the curse was fully lifted. With a last look over at the river and the throne mountains, he started down the steep hillside toward the group with their torches.
As he neared them, he was disconcerted when the old men casually moved to surround him. Before he knew it, he found himself trapped within a ring of white.
The same old man as before was directly opposite him and was grinning in a way that made his blood curdle, they were up to something.
“So,” said Colborn. “I’ve done as you asked. Is the curse fully lifted now?”
“Lifted?” asked the man. “Oh, most certainly not,” he cackled, revealing a mouth full of crooked and yellowed teeth.
The other men joined in the hilarity until Colborn felt like a fool for not understanding the joke.
“What’s wrong?” he cried. “I did what you asked. You said that the curse would be lifted if I buried the amulet up there!”
“I most certainly did not,” said the man. “I said that we accepted your sacrifice. Far from lifting the curse, we are here to ensure its fulfillment.” He sniggered again.
The torchlight flickered across Colborn’s eyes but all he could see was black. Part of him knew that he was close to passing out with fear and he clenched his fist hard drawing blood in his palms. He was in big trouble but they were only crazy old men. Surely a young Viking warrior could better them all? Then the woman’s final words came filtering back.
… and may you find the charred and smoldering end that this day’s work has earned you!
The black cleared and the old men’s torches looked hot and fiery. Terror-struck, he searched for an opening or some way to escape, but the old men had him thoroughly surrounded. They were wielding their torches like swords as they began to herd him back up the hillside. Their cackling was joined by the familiar sound of a raven cawing.
Damn those birds.
Glancing up in his panic, he saw the great bird flying overhead. It was joined by another, and then another, until there were seven of the ink-black birds circling overhead as he was forced up the hillside back onto the plateau.
The old men herded him to the exact spot where he had hidden the armlet, although how they could have known its location was beyond him. They prodded him into place and then the leader came forward again, bearing a familiar sword. It was Colborn’s father’s sword. The one that he’d left broken by the river!
“My sword!” Colborn exclaimed. “How did you fix it?”
He received no answer but during his distraction, the other old men had mysteriously obtained armfuls of wood from somewhere, which they proceeded to pile at his feet. Alarmed, he backed away and had the breath knocked from his lungs as he banged into something very solid behind him.
Turning he saw a large wooden stake that definitely hadn’t been there a moment ago. It was protruding from the ground in the very spot where he’d buried the armlet.
The headman was pointing at him with the sword, waving it dangerously close to his nose.
Colborn shrank back and was horrified to find his arms bound with ropes that had appeared out of nowhere.
“Norse man, for your terrible crime, you will be sacrificed here on this hilltop,” shrieked the crazed old man. “This hill of Raven’s Dock will be the last sight your eyes behold. Your soul is consigned to the earth, along with your blood and the body that holds the aforementioned.”
Colborn found his voice “No!” he cried. “No, you can’t sacrifice me! It was an accident! I didn’t mean to kill her! My fellow Vikings will come back here seeking retribution! You won’t get away with killing me!”
It was useless. The old men had laid their torches at the foot of the woodpile surrounding him and flames were already starting to lick up toward him. As the heat rose scorching and then burning, he struggled against the bonds but they held him fast. The pain was a living beast that took over his world and it didn’t matter how he yelled and struggled, there was no escape. It rose like an
inferno, searing, melting, excruciating agony that had no end for he must surely be going to hell.
The old men danced around the stake chanting and cackling; their noise mixing with his screams and the endless cawing of the ravens perched on the rocks around them.
Epilogue
When the next day dawned, the mists cleared and the sun shone down upon the beautiful landscape. No trace remained in either the valley or the fateful hillside to provide a clue as to the horrific murder and sacrifice that had taken place just the previous night and day. All traces of the bonfire that had lit up the hillside were gone. Ash, debris, and charred bones had all been neatly swept up and removed, taken away to enrich the forest where the druids lived.
The only remaining sign of the previous night’s terror was a slight indentation in the ground where, if you dug deep enough, you would find a gold armlet buried. And if you dug down and found the armlet, you would find that it was still sticky with blood. The blood of one who had come from afar, hoping to steal great riches, but who had instead, himself been stolen. One whose spirit would be forever more forced to guard the lonely hillside of Raven’s Dock.
A hillside which would later come to be called Ravenstock and would be haunted for all time… or at least that is the tale that druids would have you believe.
If you enjoyed this book you would love The Dark Secret
The Haunting of the Old Box Preview
"Hold him down."
Father Gerard wiped the sweat from his brow and stepped back as the man held on the bed cursed and spat into the air.
The yellow sputum was the size of a jellyfish. It rose in slow motion and hung at eye level like some strange creature from the deep... and yet the bed was so ordinary. Just a wooden framed base covered with a patchwork quilt... but the man... the man shook like a... like a dodgy building in an earthquake.
Under normal circumstance Raymond Tibbs would be a jolly looking man. Slightly portly but with a big easy smile. Now, red-faced he shuddered, trembled, quivered and thrashed on the bed. Clothed in jeans and a black sweatshirt, his heels stamped on the quilt. The white socks, with the holes wearing in at the big toes, were so normal. So out of place as the heels beat a staccato faster and harsher than any drug dazed drummer.
The bed bounced on the wooden floor as he thrashed and fought. Tibbs’ face, now so swollen and traced with bulging blue lines, that Gerald feared it might burst... but it was the eyes that were the worst thing.
Every time Father Gerard looked at those black eyes, peering out from behind a mane of sweat-soaked brown hair, he felt a cold hand squeeze his bowels. It was all he could do to not turn and run — but he must not.
Two young priests had accompanied him today. The gentle, shy, and kind Father Mackin. His blond hair now dark and matted to his head as he read from the Bible and stood his ground despite his fear.
Across the room, holding down the possessed man, was the burley but inexperienced Father Johnson. The young man was but two weeks out of the seminary, eager to please and unsure... but he held on valiantly.
Gerard knew these two mustn’t see him scared.
Father Johnson grunted with effort and fear as the bed rose even further. He looked over, his eyes wide and desperate. His arms shook as he pinned Tibbs to the bed.
All I can do is nod my support and continue praying.
“Lord send this spirit back to hell, cleanse this man and free his soul.”
Father Johnson was almost thrown from the bed as Tibbs roared like a beast and bit into his arm. Blood spurted from the wound and ran down the pale skin, but the father didn’t let go. The effort showed in the sweat that ran down his brow and the way his arm muscles bulged with veins. Fear showed in the paleness of his skin and the way his eyes flicked left and right looking for help, for salvation.
Father Gerard pitied him. He would not want to be so close — to touch such evil — but he had asked the young priest to do just that. Was he a coward? If he were, would the Lord help them?
The problem was, this was working out to be much harder than Gerard had expected. When Samantha Tibbs had first contacted him, it had taken all of his experience and control not to laugh. “How many times have you come across someone who was possessed?” she had asked him.
It was a surreal moment. This 55-year –old housewife with an auburn bob that was tinged with grey. Her brown eyes were surrounded by dark smudges that at first, he thought were bruises. Now, he knew it was a terrible fatigue. Swallowing, he had studied her and bided his time.
The problem was, he had never heard such a ludicrous thing. At the time he thought that she was having a breakdown, or perhaps, her husband was. A lesser man would have let his amusement show, would have laughed at her... he wasn't laughing now.
A wind rose in the room and the Bibles were yanked from his and Father Mackin’s hands and tossed into the wall behind him. The pages flicked back and forth creating a rustle that drove ice down his spine.
The loss of the leather almost dropped him to his knees. Bracing his legs against the tempest he clung onto his crucifix and prayed aloud to the Lord for salvation.
“Save me oh Lord, guide me back to the light.”
Mackin stumbled and was pushed back for a moment. Gerard reached out and grabbed hold of his arm. Their eyes met, and fear was transmitted between them. They knew they would die here.
What have I done?
Samantha Tibbs screamed in anguish. The sound tore into Gerard’s soul and he turned. She was clinging onto the honey-colored Cockapoo that whimpered in her arms. It was such a cute dog, with fearful eyes that peered out from its ragged fringe. It shook in her arms and the terror in both their eyes was enough to fortify him. They needed him, he had to have faith. To believe they could beat this. This woman was relying on him and he wouldn’t let her down.
Gerard tore his eyes back, even though he wanted to go to her. To offer her support, he knew he couldn't. If he didn't control this, they would all die.
So, he prayed to the Lord for help. Trying to find the right words. To impress his faith into them but this was so far out of his experience that at times, the words failed him.
During one of those times Raymond Tibbs rose in one swift movement. From lying, shaking, flat on his back, he was on his feet in less than a heartbeat. The grin on his face was evil, malicious, and enough to turn Father Gerard’s heart to stone.
The abrupt movement tossed the young priest holding him across the room as if he was nothing more than a rag doll.
Father Gerard heard a crack and a groan as the man hit the wall, but he couldn’t look. If he took his mind, his eyes, off this evil they were all lost.
Tibbs hovered, his feet a foot off the bed. A purple tongue rolled out of his mouth which pulled back into a sneer. His arms were out to the side, straight to the elbows, and then the forearms dangled down. If it hadn't been so frightening it would be a funny sight.
He hung there like some grotesque puppet swaying above the bed and then he began to laugh.
The sound was like chalk on a blackboard, harsh, grating. There was nothing amusing in the act it was meant to frighten, to demoralize and it had the desired effect.
Once more, Father Gerard wanted to run. Instead, he clasped his crucifix and walked toward the… Man… Spirit… Demon. Whatever it was it didn't belong here, and he had to get rid of it.
Tibbs turned his eyes onto him and he shrank beneath them.
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