Prologue
A farm in the West Country, two hundred years ago.
The ancient barn rang with the sounds of celebration, as shouts of joy and raucous singing mingled with the scratchy strains of an aged fiddle.
The boy watched with growing envy as the revelries gathered pace. Mother had forbidden him so much as a sip of ale, and given stern warnings against dancing with strange girls. So far he hadn’t seen any strange girls, but there were plenty of pretty ones. He watched them dancing gleefully in the middle of the barn, their long hair and petticoats swirling to the music. The boy cursed his youth and his mother’s strictness, but contented himself with the thought that next year he’d be old enough to join in the merriments.
Then someone banged loudly on a table. The dancing stopped, and the barn fell silent.
“Ladies and gentlefolk,” bellowed a tall man with a bushy black beard. “I crave your attention, if you please. You will now be addressed by the Lord of the Harvest!”
Cheers echoed as a small man stepped forward. Of course, everyone knew he wasn’t a real Lord; the title was only a jest, a temporary honour for the harvest festivities.
“We must give thanks,” said the Lord of the Harvest, adjusting his crown of twisted corn stalks. “Thanks for the most bounteous yield in living memory. This year, for the first time in many, none will go short of bread this winter. This year, we shall all share in the fruits of our labours.” More cheers erupted, mixed with sounds of ale being hastily guzzled.
“We must also give thanks for our deliverance,” continued the Lord of the Harvest. “For none of this would be possible if our Master was here.”
The cheers faded, replaced by angry snarls and murmurs.
The Lord of the Harvest raised a hand for silence.
“But that wicked monster, who denied us our share and treated us no better than cattle, has finally gone. At last we are free from his tyranny. But he will never be free from us. He must stand atop the hill and watch as we plough his land and reap his crops, year after year until the end of days!”
The cheers returned, louder than before. The Lord of the Harvest hoisted his tankard.
“I propose a toast. A toast to the plentiful harvest. And to our dearly departed Master. May his soul burn in hell fire for all eternity!”
Cheers sounded again, and the ancient barn seemed to shake. The din made the boy wince; he didn’t think it right to be cheering the death of a man. But the Master’s cruelty was well known, and even a God fearing lady like Mother said the old landlord got no more than he deserved.
The cheering subsided, and the throng raised their tankards. Then someone started shouting.
“My cup is empty,” bellowed the tall, bushy bearded man.
“So is mine,” cried another.
Similar shouts were heard. The boy sighed, as he knew what that meant.
“We need more ale.” The Lord of the Harvest pointed at the boy. “Lad, fetch a barrel from the shed.”
“And quickly,” added the bearded man. “For we must toast our Master’s health.”
People laughed, but the boy didn’t share their humour as he slouched from the barn.
Next year he’d be old enough to drink. Next year he’d be dancing with the prettiest girls, not acting as skivvy to a bunch of drunken louts.
Compared to the barn, the yard was eerily silent. Night was falling with an unsettling eagerness, and the chalky moon hung stark against the darkening heavens. The heat of the day had faded, and a chill breeze sent stray wisps of straw scuttling spider-like across the cobbles.
The boy wasn’t afraid of the dark, but regretted not having a lantern as he made his way towards the store shed. This corner of the yard was plunged in shadow, and he had to fumble for the bolt on the shed door. When his fingers finally located the rusted metal pin, he was surprised to find the door had been left ajar.
The boy opened the door further, and peered into the shed. It was dark as pitch inside, but he could discern the barrels stacked against the end wall. And was that a moving shadow?
The boy’s pulse quickened. There was someone in the shed.
He called out, trying hard to disguise his growing unease. “Who be there?”
There was no answer.
“Where’s that useless lad? We need our ale!”
An angry shout came thundering from the barn. The boy debated whether the risk of entering the shed was worse than facing the wrath of an ale starved farm labourer.
Then he took a deep breath, and crept slowly into the shed.
As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw there was no one lurking to ambush him. He didn’t have long to savour the relief; another angry bellow from the barn reminded the boy that he had a job to do.
The boy spat on his palms and rubbed his hands together, then seized the rim of the nearest barrel. He dragged it into the middle of the shed, and then carefully lowered it onto one side. It was hefty work, and he decided to take one last breather before rolling the barrel out of the shed.
He was about to start rolling when he heard a noise behind him.
Thud.
The boy wheeled round, and saw something rolling across the floor towards him. It was round in shape, with a tapered end and a sprig of leaves on the top.
The boy knew a turnip when he saw one, and chuckled as he picked up the errant vegetable. He saw there was a basket of the things in the corner of the shed, and was going to put the turnip back in the basket when something made him stop.
They hadn’t grown turnips on the farm this year.
The boy inspected the turnip in his hand. There was something about it that didn’t seem right. And the boy should know, having spent most of his childhood digging up the things. It wasn’t just the weight, or the odd bumpy texture, there was something else…
He could feel vibrations coming from the turnip. As though it was alive...
He stared at the turnip, and the turnip stared at him.
It had eyes: beady, wicked looking eyes!
Horrified, the boy dropped the turnip. Then he saw more beady eyes staring at him from the basket.
The boy turned to run, but knocked into the barrel on the floor. The impact sent him sprawling, and the barrel went rolling across the shed.
The boy fell flat on his face. The barrel came to a rest against the shed door, barring his escape route.
He heard more thuds, and looked round to see the turnips dropping from the basket. They came bouncing towards him, their eyes ablaze with evil intent.
But what harm could turnips do? Even bewitched, living turnips? They had no limbs, no claws to cut him with.
The boy started laughing. They were turnips, mere vegetables. Nothing to be afraid of.
But the boy’s laughter twisted into a scream of terror when the turnips opened their mouths…
Chapter 1- Face It, We’re Lost
Wychetts and the Farm of Fear Page 2