by S E England
The only one spared, it seems, is the demon child - Beatrice. She looks as if she is around nine or ten years old but those eyes, they shine and glint with a knowledge older than time itself. Sometimes I catch her watching me and when I look up, she grins. It is particularly disconcerting to be so afraid of a child.
She sits now, biting and scratching herself, bouncing up and down on her haunches as she watches the scene unfold. There is something particularly heightened about her demeanour this morning - a crafty, gleeful air about her - and I get a feeling she is set to do something.
And so she does.
Suddenly Beatrice rushes forwards and snatches Ivy Payne’s hairpins from her head.
Ivy whirls around, grabbing at the air in futility.
But Beatrice has already lurched towards Ada, who is strapped to the board, and stabs her full in the eyeball.
***
Chapter Nine
Isobel Lee
The Gatehouse
2018
The episode with Lorna had left her shaken, far more than she cared to admit. She really was alone here, absolutely isolated and without a single friend. This had been a major mistake.
She stood in the drive staring at the front door, wondering what to do about it. Christ! Six months’ rent was down…Get a grip, Isobel! You’ve had one rough night, that’s all. You were over-tired, in a strange house in the middle of nowhere, and you’re sensitive to atmosphere. It’s far too early to throw in the towel. And as for that bloody awful woman, well she’s just bad mannered – be thankful you’re not her!
Having given herself a good talking-to, she decided to drive to the nearest town, fill up with petrol and stock up with supplies. It would be a couple of hours of relative normality and besides, her stomach was churning over with hunger and Delyth’s hospitality wasn’t up to much.
The nearest town was Lampeter - a busy centre bustling with shoppers and a choice of supermarkets - and after a misty start the day began to brighten. After breakfast in a local café, a pleasant enough morning was spent looking around town before filling a supermarket trolley with everything needed for a week in the sticks. It was quite a long way to come, but then again probably a good idea to stay in touch with the bustle of everyday town life. Keep her feet on the ground.
In better spirits and with the situation once more in perspective, she finally headed back to Blackmarsh. By then it was mid-afternoon and beginning to spit rain, heavy clouds already rolling off the mountains. There were few other cars on the road, and by the time the village was signposted hers was the only one. It wasn’t the way she’d come and looked like a shortcut – a back lane - and at the last moment she veered off. If it was quicker she thought, putting her foot down, so much the better because fatigue was setting and it looked as though it was going to pour.
The lane was narrow as it wended through the valley. Shrouded by heavily wooded slopes on both sides and lined with high hedges, passing places were few, and it became more and more difficult to keep track of where the last one had been. The further away from the main road the narrower it became. Grass sprouted in the middle, a skeletal canopy of trees arched overhead and occasional cobbled fords obscured by darkly rippling streams caught her by surprise, shattering the suspension of what was after all, not a car designed for off-roading. She pictured being stuck half way across one of these swilling pools. There wasn’t a soul around.
Turn back…at the next passing place…turn around…
The road began to snake however, with blind bend after blind bend and nowhere to manoeuvre. The slopes flanking both sides were steeper now too, as the lane curved into the mountains, the forestation denser. And as the rain changed to sleet she switched the wipers to rapid and flicked the headlights on. What if something was coming the other way?
Oh God, this road was freaking her out. Concentrating on the prospect of running headlong into an oncoming vehicle any second and knowing full well who would come off worse, she slowed the car to a crawl. This was really dangerous. There hadn’t been a passing place in at least a mile now.
Suddenly the sound of a car horn blasted from behind.
She visibly jumped in her seat. Glanced in the rear view mirror.
What the fuck?
“Bloody hell, mate. Back off!”
A truck was tailgating right to the bumper. Lights on full beam.
For Christ’s sake!
He wasn’t a fast driver taken by surprise that someone else was on the road, either, because he hadn’t braked. If anything he seemed determined to shunt her clean off the road.
The concentration was immense. She stared at the road ahead for fear of an oncoming vehicle. Checked the rear-view. Back to the road ahead. Jeez…how far to the village? This was horrible.
Now he honked the horn. Not once but repeatedly. Flashed the lights. Revved the engine. Banged on the horn again. At one point the fender touched the little Mazda’s bumper and she speeded up as much as she dared. Oh God, this was it. Any minute now something would be haring this way and life would be over.
In flash glances she checked the rear-view mirror. The truck was large, red, the driver wore dark glasses….a beard, long straggly grey hair, baseball cap… A bend was approaching and she slowed again. He flashed, blasted the horn and speeded up.
This was suicidal. On and on it went. What if a tractor or four by four was coming towards them? Was the man mad? Couldn’t he see how dangerous this was? She broke a sweat, gripping the steering wheel, tearful. It was one bend after another…then suddenly there ahead lay a straight run with a narrow grass verge to one side.
Beginning to pull over to let him past, the car bumping wildly onto the turf…she shouted, “Go on, overtake then you fucking moron!”
But he didn’t. Instead deciding to ram the back of her car into the hedge.
After the first shunt, as he was reversing for another, she slammed her foot flat to the floor, careering off the turf with wheels spinning and mud splattering the windows. The car’s engine screamed in first as she crunched the gears into second and got it back onto the lane.
Fuck! He was a psycho.
The best thing to do was not to stop or confront him, but accelerate the hell out of here. It couldn’t be much further now! Oh God, help me…. The tyres squealed around the bends, rear wheels skidding. Hedges were a blur. Her heart was banging. Yet he was still on her tail, never more than a few inches away.
Finally, at long last, the canopy of trees parted and the road widened on approach towards Blackmarsh. At the first possible moment she swerved over to the left and almost into the wall of someone’s house. As the truck not only shot past but so fast it mounted the kerb on the other side and bounced off again before accelerating away in a cloud of exhaust fumes.
She pulled on the handbrake.
Shaking from head to foot.
The stupid, stupid pig!
Sitting in her car with rain needling onto the windscreen, it was looking more and more like she shouldn’t have bothered getting up today - what with Lorna bloody Fortesque-Barrington-Smythe or whoever she was, giving her a ticking-off - and now being run off the road…Jeez, was there anyone round here going to make her welcome?
Trying to calm down, she started up the engine and continued the drive into Blackmarsh. It was so tiny as to be entirely centred around one corner - with The Drovers Inn on one side and the cobbled square on the other. Still shaking, she parked in the same place as last night. There were no other cars. And again there came the distinct feeling of being watched, of shadows hovering behind net curtains. Well, there were bound to be some oddballs in an isolated village like this, no doubt the angry male driver was one of them.
Still muttering to herself, she decided walk down to the church to see if there was a number on the noticeboard for the local vicar. The urge to go straight home and lock the door was overwhelming, but something good had to come out of today, and having a chat with the vicar might be just what was needed. Hopefully he
would be good enough to pop over – preferably this evening. It might be an idea to have the house blessed if she was going to start work as a medium.
The thought, frankly, was as terrifying as it was annoying because she really did not want to spend her life communing with the dead. Not that she’d be telling that to the vicar. They didn’t like or trust mediums any more than most people did. Although it didn’t stop people wanting their fortunes read – odd, she thought, our relationship with the other side.
The February sleet came straight off snow-capped mountains and like the night before, with it a thick rolling fog. It curled around the Victorian railings and hovered over the gravestones. Shivering inside her coat, the lichgate clanging shut behind her, she hurried down the church path. Considering graveyards and cemeteries had such a spooky reputation, she didn’t find many spirits troubling her here. Quite the opposite – by and large these were deeply restful places. No doubt if she touched a headstone the story would be different but simply walking through during daylight hours, the atmosphere was of a serenity that defied the passage of time.
These places held so many secrets - family names, ages and illnesses immortalised in the stone for as long as they were legible. So many children too - the tiny burial plots and cherubic memorials always startling in this day and age. Still, all it took was an outbreak of scarlet fever or whooping cough in those days and a whole community was wiped out. It was the way. No wonder fireside tales and ancient superstitions held fast. They were dark times. Fraught with poverty too. The simple Celtic crosses and toppling headstones reflected this, the inscriptions bearing witness to early deaths and sudden departures. With one major and noticeable exception - that of a large, white marble vault, which had been maintained in pristine condition close to the entrance. Isobel peered at the engravings. Ah, the Fox-Whatelys! So they had been the gentry here for centuries, then? No wonder Lorna was so snooty about her land. No doubt her ancestors had employed the entire village and owned all the farms round here too?
Here was Edgar and his wife, Cecily…who died in 1942. And Edward and Cecily’s beloved only daughter, Olivia who died in 1981, a spinster of this parish. How funny – wonder why she didn’t marry? Oh well, no doubt it would all make sense one day. It was hardly her concern, anyway. There were, after all, far more important things on her mind, and happily it looked as though St Winifred’s church was open – well at least the porch was – and it had a noticeboard. Gladly she stepped inside, glad to be out of the rain.
“Can I help you?”
In the stillness of the church porch, the voice was startling and she swung round. “Oh, sorry, you made me jump. I didn’t hear the gate or footsteps–”
“No need to be sorry, I was just round the back locking up the vestry when I heard footsteps. I’m Mercy, the local vicar. You must be our newbie?”
Isobel held out her hand. A bright and breezy blond of middling years, the woman had honest blue eyes, a beaky nose, and a handshake as wet as a dead fish.
“Yes, hi! Isobel Lee – I’m renting The Gatehouse up at–”
“Yes, I know,” she said. “Small place. How are you settling in?”
“Fine, thank you. To be honest, though, I only arrived last night so–”
Mercy was bustling past her with the keys to the church door. “Fab. Well, I hope we’ll see you at our service on Sunday? Ten-thirty and all welcome. It’s only once a month now but we’d love to see you. Anyway, must crack on.”
“Of course, but could I just ask you, well this is a bit embarrassing actually, but–”
Mercy stopped on the turn of the door handle and looked at her directly. “Yes?”
Darn it, why did she feel so awkward talking to a spiritual person about a spiritual matter? Or was it all about church fetes and children’s groups? “Well, the thing is, I did wonder if you might be willing to come over and bless the house?”
What had she expected? That the vicar’s face would light up? Further words escaped in an ill thought-out jumble from her mouth. “It’s just that, well, I’m a little bit psychic and I tend to pick up things…and…”
Oh God, the woman’s cheery face had crumpled along with the rest of her demeanour.
“Really? Gosh, I don’t think I’ve ever been asked that here before. I mean, of course, if it makes you feel happier. Although, frankly I am rather busy at the moment.”
Mercy seemed to be at pains now to find something else to do. She began to rifle through her bucket handbag. “Where’s my diary? Oh no, I don’t have it with me. No, no…it’s not here. And after this I’m back over to Lampeter for a baby shower. Such fun. Look, tell you what – why don’t you give me a ring when you’re all settled in and we’ll have a pot of tea? Ah, here’s one of my cards. Must dash, lovely talking. Absolute pleasure.”
Isobel stared after her.
In one instant the world felt like a bleak and lonely place again, and her eyes filled with tears. Clearly there was no help here unless she baked cakes or donated a raffle prize. She looked at the locked church door and turned away, her footsteps echoing dully on the damp path towards the lychgate.
Back in the courtyard, hers was still the only car there, and on a whim she decided to pop into the local shop before it closed for the day. Then that would be the tour of the village over and done with. The gloom of the day matched her mood.
Later she would recall walking through that jingling doorway and laying eyes for the first time on Branwen Morgan. The woman who was to take her to the very edge of sanity and make her question every belief she had ever had.
But in that moment, standing there on the threshold, she could do nothing but stare, aware on some deeper level that nothing would ever be quite the same again.
***
Chapter Ten
Branwen Morgan had the expectant air of someone who’d been waiting, a half smile playing on her lips, the light of a dance in her eyes.
Startlingly arresting in appearance she was of indeterminate age – although her complexion was that of a young woman, her jade eyes held the knowing expression of one far older. An abundance of chestnut hair waved past her shoulders, studs pierced her nose, ears and tongue, the make-up blackly dramatic around her eyes, blood red on the lips. Isobel took in the rest of her in what she hoped was not too obvious a sweeping glance – the Gothic corset topped with a black shrug, stiletto nails tapering at the end of every ring-adorned finger, crystals hanging around her neck…
“Can I help you?”
She recovered herself quickly. The woman was a Goth and why not? It had always been a look she admired but never had the nerve to try. “Hi, sorry, I’m a bit flustered – bit of a day. Sorry – were you closing soon?”
Branwen’s Welsh accent was soft and lilting, surprisingly high and girlish. “No, you take your time my lovely, find your breath.”
“Thanks.”
“Something happened, is it?”
“Oh, just this bloke tried to run me off the road. You know, road rage or something? I’m still a bit jittery–”
“Oh?”
“Yes, well it’s nothing really. I was on the way back from Lampeter–”
“You staying here, are you? You the one at The Gatehouse, is it?”
“Yes.” Isobel smiled. “I guess news really does travel fast round here?”
“That’s right, small place, see?”
“I just bumped into the vicar and she knew who I was too–”
“What sort of car was it, did you say?”
“I didn’t. Not sure, to be honest. Some sort of truck, a Toyota I think, red–”
“Was he wearing a peaked cap? Grey beard, cigarette hanging out of his mouth?”
“He might have done. Yes, I think so. To be honest it was all a bit of a blur, he was right up to the bumper – inches off–”
“Sounds like my friend from Copa Hill again.”
Isobel’s eyes widened. “Oh, you know him, then? Has he done that before?”
Bra
nwen’s eyes twinkled. “Bloody Rhys! There’s some who don’t like incomers, that’s all.”
“Oh God, so it was personal? But I’m only a lodger - I’m hardly planning to turn the place into a theme park.”
“I know lovely, but for some reason, and it’s always been the same, there are some who don’t like anyone coming here, especially him. One or two wanted to open a B&B a few years back – you know, to make a bit of extra cash when the old mines started opening up to tourists? But no, we had a right to-do in the church hall about it. Anyhow, the business has gone elsewhere and we’re left with just the scraps of passing trade. Makes my blood boil, it does.”
“Well, hopefully word will get out I’m not a threat. Honestly, though, he was a menace – the situation was really dangerous.” She looked around, just beginning to notice how different the shop was from every other grocery store she’d been in. “Anyway, that’s why I was a bit, you know…and I thought I’d pop in to see what you sold so I won’t have to drive into town every week. Not that I’ll be using that particular road again.”
“Of course, take your time. No rush, is it?”
The shop was bijou and abnormally dark for one of this nature. Chimes tinkled and fairy lights blinked. The walls were black. And it didn’t smell like a village shop either…more…she tried not to make it obvious she was sniffing…herbal. Was that incense or joss sticks? Kind of like burning leaves.
“From London are you? England?”
“Um…” Transfixed by the selection of crystals, runes, incense, and beeswax candles – displayed on the same shelves as more mundane items, she tried to gather her wits enough to reply. The strangest feeling of being drugged was clouding her senses. “No, not London, although I was living there with my husband–”
“Ah! So where you actually from then? You, yourself?”
“Derbyshire.”
“Oh yes? I can’t say I’ve been, but I went to London once. Didn’t like it much – too noisy and crowded for me. And I got lost on the underground.”
