by Tony Walker
“So he lived up here with the ravens and the wolves, and worse things that came in the dark of the night to visit him. Some say demons and succubi.”
“What’s that?”
“A succubus? It’s an evil spirit in the form of a woman,” said Alf. He’d obviously told this story many times and it was further polished each time he recounted it.
“So did he kill many people?” asked Ellie.
“It is said he would prey on travellers. People out late at night, making their lonely way from Patterdale to Ambleside. There were lots of them who weren’t seen again. One woman lost her little daughter and they say her ghost wanders the fells hereabouts, looking for her. What she doesn’t realise is that Adam Scot took the girl.”
Ellie shuddered. “I’m scared now.”
Her mother put her arm round her shoulder. “It was hundreds of years ago, my lamb. Don’t worry.”
“And it’s totally made up!” I butted in.
Alf laughed. “They do say that there’s a room in this building, never discovered yet, that holds the bones of Adam Scot’s victims.”
“Bullshit!” I exclaimed. I was perhaps overreacting because he’d managed to send a chill up my spine and I didn’t want to admit it.
Alf laughed. “Same again? Last one before I leave you.”
I nodded. Alf poured the pint. “I’ll be switching the electric pumps off, but if you want a whisky or a brandy, just take one from the optic and we’ll settle up tomorrow.”
“Very trusting,” I smiled.
“You seem an honest man,” he replied.
I looked over at Hazel. She was quiet, not even listening to her music. I saw her looking at her mother, as if seeking some comfort and reassurance but Margaret was busy fussing over Ellie.
Alf came with my pint. Then he began to switch things off and lock doors. When he had his coat on, he said, “Turn this light off when you go upstairs will you? I’ll be back in the morning. Full English breakfasts?”
I nodded. “Not for Hazel. She’s a vegetarian.”
He waved and closed the door behind him. I heard it lock.
“But we can get out right?” asked Hazel.
“Of course, we’ve got keys,” I said.
I slowly sipped my pint. Alf had put a fire guard around the log fire that was slowly dying but still giving off pleasing warmth.
“You’re quiet,” I said to Hazel.
“Me? No, I’m not.”
I reached over and stroked her hand. She didn’t pull away as she normally did these days. I said, “I miss our chats. We used to get on so well.”
The ghost of a smile played across her face as she remembered. “I was a real daddy’s girl. What a wuss I was.”
“It’s not all about being tough and grown up Haze. You’ve got to leave room for softness and care in your heart.”
She shrugged. “I’m going to bed.” Margaret got up with Ellie. “I’ll go up too. Don’t you be too late.”
“I’ll just finish this. Maybe have a whisky. I’m just enjoying the fire and the quiet.”
When they’d gone I was alone in the barroom. I poured myself a whisky from the optic as he said. It felt naughty helping myself to drinks, but I would be scrupulously honest when I settled up the next day. Tumbler in hand, I sat near the fire just enjoying the peace. The only sounds were the crackling and spitting of the logs and the faint sound of the wind as it moaned around the old building.
And then I thought I saw something. Something vague and ill-defined, but man-sized, like a memory or even a premonition.
I rubbed my eyes then I stared into the corner where I was sure something had moved. But there was nothing. Just a table and some chairs. Nothing to worry about. I tapped a finger on my whisky tumbler. I laughed to myself.
But there it was again.
Not a vision this time, but a feeling that there was something or somebody there. I felt so stupid but I actually walked over to the empty corner and looked around me. But there was no Adam Scot to be seen. Reassured, I sat back down and finished my whisky.
I saw that Margaret had left her camera on the table. I picked it up and turned on the viewing screen to see that last nice picture of us four she’d snapped in the bar. Just to see if we looked like a happy family.
I’d seen the picture when she took it, but when I looked at the image again, it wasn’t as I remembered it. For one thing, Hazel’s face was blurry, and behind her, I could swear there was the shadow. Not an ordinary shadow. But as if there was an image behind this one, like when a painter paints over an old picture, but then time fades the covering image and reveals what used to be beneath.
The shadow was the shape of a man. I could swear it hadn’t been there before. But of course that was ridiculous. It must have been there. It was obviously some fault in the camera screen, or maybe my eyes in the poor light. Shaking my head, I knocked the whisky back and retired to bed.
Margaret was reading when I got up to the room. She yawned and smiled.
I yawned. “I’m tired.”
“All the fresh air.”
By the time I brushed my teeth and got my pyjamas on, Margaret was asleep. Her chest lifting gently with each breath. I lay beside her warm body and then fell asleep myself.
A piercing scream wakened me.
“What the fuck was that?” I shouted, jumping out of bed. I clicked the light on. My heart was hammering. Margaret was sitting up in bed, her face white. “It came from the girls’ room,” she said.
I ran through and burst the door open. There was Ellie standing screaming, pressing herself against the wall, like she was terrified of something and wanted to get away from it. The thing she was terrified of was Hazel. Hazel stood there, vacant eyed in the middle of the room.
I grabbed Ellie. “It’s ok; she’s only sleepwalking.”
“She’s never sleepwalked before.”
“It’s a new place, a strange place. I’ll put her back to bed.”
“But it’s not just that, dad.”
I tried to comfort Ellie before going over to steer Hazel back to bed. “What, Ellie?” I said.
She was shivering. It took her ages to get the words out. Then she stammered, “There was a man in here with us.”
I frowned. “Don’t be silly. How could that be? I’m the only man in the place.”
She was shaking. “He wasn’t an ordinary man. He was dressed in black and he was hard to see. I woke to hear him bending over Hazel and whispering things to her. Then I screamed, and you came in and he’s gone.”
Margaret was standing at the door in her night-dress. She cuddled Ellie. “Just a dream, my love. That silly Alf’s stories got you all scared.”
“No, mum. I know what I saw. It was an evil warlock. It was Adam Scot.”
We spoke no more about it. In the morning, I just told Alf we’d changed our plans. Something had called us home unexpectedly. He was nice about it and refunded the second night’s stay.
Hazel was very sleepy that morning. Ellie told her she’d been sleepwalking, but she didn’t believe it. She was quieter even than usual. When we were ready to go, I couldn’t find her, so I went back into the Inn and up the stairs. She was just standing in the room.
“You ok?” I said. “I can take you to the doctor’s if you’re not well.”
She didn’t speak. I went up and put my arms around her. She seemed cold to the touch. Maybe she really was ill. I said, “Come on, Haze. Let’s go home. You can go see your friends.”
I went to the bedroom door, but she didn’t follow. I turned. “Hazel?” I said.
There was definitely something odd about her.
She said, “I can’t ever leave here.”
That was bizarre. She’d never even wanted to come in the first place.
I squeezed her arm and pulled her out. She didn’t resist, but she didn’t actively come with me either. When we got to the Inn’s door, I realised I’d left the boot of the car open and it was raining. I hurried over
to shut it. Ellie and Margaret were already in the car. I turned round to see Hazel just standing at the door of the Inn. She didn’t come out, just stood there. And it looked to me like she wasn’t my little Hazel anymore. But it was a silly thought, so I opened the car door for her and went to get her. She felt limp and dragged her feet. It was all most odd, but I got her to the car, got her in and her sister buckled up her safety belt for her.
When we were all in the car, we headed home. I put the radio on. Margaret fed me grapes that she’d bought in the town the previous day. We drove down the motorway. The girls were quiet in the back listening to their own music but that was normal.
We got home in the early afternoon. The girls went up to their separate bedrooms, and I didn’t see them for the rest of the day.
The next day, I had a day off as I’d expected still to be in the Lake District. I can’t lie in bed, even when I’m off. I’ve got too many years of getting up for work ingrained in me. So I got up and made a cup of tea and some toast for Margaret.
As I walked into our bedroom with the tray, Ellie came down from the attic we’d converted for her. She looked ashen. She said, “Hazel’s not there.”
“What?” said Margaret.
I said, “Are you sure?”
Ellie nodded. “Come and check.”
“She’ll have gone out to see her friends,” said Margaret.
“It’s not even nine in the morning,” I said.
And Hazel wasn’t there.
You can imagine the state we were all in. We searched the house and rang all her friends, all of whom told us they hadn’t seen Hazel since before we set off for the Lake District. We called the Police and reported her as a missing person.
I don’t know why but I went and got the camera again. I switched it on and waited impatiently while it booted up. Then I switched on the viewfinder and looked at that photograph and it was daytime now so I couldn’t blame the poor light. I couldn’t blame the screen, because it worked fine. But in the picture, Hazel had gone. And in her place, a dark, shadowed being stood.
That night two police officers called at our house - a man and a woman. Margaret saw them first through the window. She could hardly control herself. We knew what they were coming to tell us.
We showed them in. They were very polite. The woman said, “Please sit dowThe
“I’m afraid I have some very bad news.”
I was shaking. Margaret started to cry. “Just say it,” I said.
“Ambleside Police...”
“Ambleside Police? Where we’ve just been?”
The woman nodded and continued. “Ambleside police have found the remains of a young female in a secret room at the Inn where you stayed.”
Margaret stood up, suddenly, agitated. She muttered, “That can’t be. Hazel came back with us in the car.”
I stood there, a terrible realisation coming over me and I knew:
Whatever had come back with us to our house wasn’t Hazel.
7
The Bewcastle Fairies
It was Christmas 1653, not that there was a real Christmas that year since Oliver Cromwell and his Puritans had banned Christmas as a pagan festival. Instead, we were to have a ‘silent contemplation’ of the birth of Christ.
Silent contemplation, my arse. I needed ale. So, I set off Christmas morning leaving my good wife Jane with the plucked goose and my sons and daughters to do the work needed before I returned to eat. Myself, I got my old bay mare Jenny. The fact that the horse is called a similar name to my wife is a cause of some confusion to me at times, especially after a few pints sunk.
I clip-clopped on Jenny along the road to Bewcastle. The road is rough. You couldn’t get a cart over the ruts and stones in the winter mud. But Jenny managed it just fine.
I arrived at the King’s Head, a rough, tumble-down sort of place, but very close to my heart to be greeted by Ned, the landlord. ‘What are you doing here today Alexander Armstrong? Shouldn’t you be having a silent contemplation of our Lord’s birth?’ He cackled.
‘I’d rather do it over a pint of your best ale. I can contemplate while I’m looking into the bubbles,’ I said.
And so I drank one. I drank another one from my leather tankard, which I take with me everywhere on the off chance I may call into an alehouse. Then I sank yet another. There was no one in the pub that Christmas Day but me. At least Ned had the fire on.
‘Banned Christmas, eh?’ Ned said as way of conversation.
‘Cromwell,’ I spat.
‘You a Royalist then, Alex?’
I shook my head. ‘I’m an Armstrong. We Armstrongs look after each other. Not English, not Scotch, not Royalists not Parliamentarians. Just Armstrongs. We live here in the Debatable Lands and we see to ourselves. So, no Neddy. I’m no Royalist. And I don’t care whether Christmas is banned. I never cared for it much, anyway.’ I looked around. ‘Seems it scared the rest of your customers away.’
Ned said, ‘No, never had many in Christmas morning. Usually they choose to be with their families.’
He was making some point. I said, ‘Maybe they have wives better favoured in the looks department than my Jane.’
He looked like he might say something more but I was a good customer so he spat into the fire instead.
After five pints, I was feeling a little unsteady.
‘You having a goose?’ he said.
‘Aye.’
‘You’d better be off, hadn’t you?’
‘Suppose.’
‘Well, Merry Christmas,’ he said, standing.
I stood too, with a little wobble. The beer had gone to my head. ‘Merry Christmas, Neddy.’ I gave him a big hug which took him aback rather. He showed me to the door. He held it open so I could go out. The cold wind blew in, fluttering the fire, rattling the pots and squeaking through all the holes in the wainscotting. It was snowing.
‘Very Seasonal,’ said Ned.
‘Aye.’
‘You’ve a bit of a ride home.’
‘Aye. But Jane’s a good horse.’
‘You mean, Jenny,’ he said. ‘Jenny’s your horse. Jane’s your wife.’
I laughed. ‘Thanks for reminding me, Ned.’
The poor old mare stood shivering, hitched outside. In Bewcastle nothing moved as I rode through the snow. It got in my face, cold and wet, and down my neck. I leaned over the saddle and trusted Jenny to take me home.
But the snow grew to be a blizzard, and we could hardly see. Jenny was struggling because the snow had grown so deep, and I was getting cold now and shivering with the wet. I wished myself home and thought of the goose waiting for me. I regretted my comments about Jane’s looks. She was a dutiful wife and cooked a fine goose. If rather plain of face and fat of arse.
We came into a stand of trees. Snow clung to them and whipped across my face. I’d ridden this road a thousand times, nay, ten thousand, in my years, but this place looked strange to me. The snow was in heaps and still blowing, whipping across. Jenny’s mane had snow on it. My fingers were blue with cold and numb. My hat had a crust of snow as did my shoulders and even into the turn-ups of my sleeves.
The wood went on a while, perhaps because our progress through the snow was difficult and slow. I began to think I would freeze to death before I got home.
And then behind the flitting curtain of snow, I saw a light: a golden light. It came from beyond the trees. I’d never seen a light like it before. It was like the sun rising on a beautiful summer morning, but in the middle of the snow and the trees.
We struggled through the weather and the path took us towards the light. As we got closer, the snow faltered and then vanished as if it were banished by the golden light. As if we’d crossed a curtain. And now, I could see the source of the light. It came from a hill I recognised as the one they call Skelly How. They say it is an ancient place and the old folk shun it saying it is the home of the fairies. But they are idiots.
I thought nothing of such stupidity, but the change in the weath
er was odd. I looked around amazed at the golden glow. It was as if the sun had suddenly chased away the snow, and we stood within an enchanted circle.
Jenny neighed and shook her head to clear the ice from her mane. I took off my hat and shook it and then I saw a man. I didn’t see how he appeared; it was as if he had just appeared.
He was the strangest-looking fellow. Tall and thin with white hair as fine and crisp as if it were made of spun sugar. His complexion was bone white too with a sharp nose and black lips. His eyes were the deepest violet with no pupils, just enormous violet irises which blocked out the whites completely. He wore a long gold brocaded coat of blue satin — hardly suited to the weather I had just been travelling through, though more fitted to this warm place I found myself in now. From his look, I wondered if he was French.
He spoke English like a gentleman from down south, not one of us country folk. ‘Alexander Armstrong, is it?’ he said quite pleasant.
I nodded. ‘Who asks?’
‘My name is Mr Spindledrift Goodfellow.’
I cleared my throat. ‘I’m not familiar with that name, Mr Goodfellow. Where do you hail from?’
‘Here and there.’
I peered at the strange-looking man. ‘Where is that exactly?’
He laughed. ‘Under dale and over hill.’
I grew suspicious. ‘I’m not familiar with that place. It seems to me that you are being rather evasive, Mr Goodfellow.’
‘Oh, no. Not at all, Mr Armstrong. ’ He seemed to be keen to change the subject. ‘To cut to the chase, Mr Armstrong, I find myself in need of someone to take a particular object off my hands. Think of it as a trade..’
‘A trade?’ Here it was. Typical Frenchman.
‘Yes. Here it is.’ He reached into his coat and pulled out a golden sphere. A soft glow emanated from it and I thought it was humming to itself, though I could be mistaken.
‘What’s that?’ said I.
‘It’s an egg.’
‘An egg?’ and when I looked at it, it did now seem that it was egg-like. Not shaped like an egg, no it was perfectly round. But something egg-like inhered to it. ‘What kind of egg?’
