by S E England
“No, thank you, honestly. I was just looking for Branwen–”
His eyes bored into hers. Small and glass-like they had an unnerving deflective quality.
“I don’t think you’ll find her in the photographs.”
Heat was crawling into her face, suffusing her cheeks, burning the lobes of her ears.
Still he stared.
She struggled, as if hypnotised, for something to say. “I…I was just...Sorry, it just struck me how alike you look.”
“Alike?”
“Yes, to the gentleman in the pictures. It’s really quite a striking resemblance. Is he your grandfather or great grandfather by any chance? The…what were they called back then, alienists or mind doctors?”
Mervyn’s face blanched very slightly. A shadow passed behind his eyes and his mouth seemed to twist inwards. The man, she realised with growing disquiet, seethed with a quiet rage, albeit restrained and controlled, but perhaps all the more dangerous for that.
“What a good eye you have.”
“Ah!” She affected a bright tone, a guileless demeanour. “I’m very good with faces. I had a resemblance to my great grandmother, apparently. It seemed to miss two generations. Quite uncanny.”
He remained standing exactly where he was, glaring now as is if the very sight of her appalled him.
What was the matter with him? How could he possibly have taken offence? She smiled. “I suppose being a doctor must run in your family. Anyway, I must try and find Branwen, she might be back by–”
“Your friend’s in the church yard.”
“Really?”
“Yes, I just passed her. Oh, and you must come and see me – register at the practice. Lorna will book you in.”
“Thank you, yes I’ll do that.”
Her heart was banging so hard she felt sure he could hear it, her footsteps loud on the flagstones as she hurried from the inn. His eyes were on her back until the very last minute. Goodness, did it matter that she knew who his grandfather was? The man was a dead ringer. What was far more disturbing was something he didn’t know - that was he was the man in her vision, and the one the spirits tried to show her last night.
She had to find Branwen.
Outside, the rain had set to grim. God, how desolate this place in winter. There wasn’t a single person in sight, no cars, no distant rumble of traffic, no muffled voices from within the cottages. Her lone steps clicked along the cobbles and down the path towards the church.
It only occurred to her as she neared the lytchgate, to wonder what Branwen could possibly be doing in the graveyard. In the rain. But as she cranked it open it was to find two women in the churchyard, not one. Perhaps she’d been half expecting Branwen to be knee deep in a grave digging up a coffin. Instead, she was standing by the porch with her hands on her hips talking to Mercy May, raven hair streaming behind her, facial expression set to grim.
Mercy was clutching a hymn book, her words carrying in fragments on the wind. “…absolutely cannot…against our Lord Jesus Christ…everything…completely forbid…”
“Who told you? Who told you?” Branwen was yelling.
“Never mind that, this is sacrilege.”
At the sound of Isobel’s approach both women turned.
“Sorry to interrupt. Sorry. I was told Branwen was here and I–”
Mercy glared. “Oh, I see. You couldn’t wait for me to come over and bless the house, so you thought you’d try witchcraft instead, is that it?”
“Sorry?”
Mercy shook her head. “I simply cannot allow this to happen in my parish. I absolutely forbid it. It’s the devil’s work and I won’t have either of you in my church if you persist in using the dark arts, do you understand? And you, Miss, will not dig up my graveyard. Not now and not ever. Do I make myself clear?”
“Oh sod off,” said Branwen. “It was a handful of earth, that’s all. You don’t own it.”
“We’ll see,” said Mercy. “We’ll see what the rest of the village has to say about this.”
“Is that a threat, because if it is it isn’t very Christian,” said Branwen. “Anyone would think I’d committed murder not dug up a spoonful of soil. Anyway, what’s more important is who’s spreading gossip? I have a right to know who’s slandering my name.”
“No, you don’t. Suffice to say that Christianity presides in this village and there are loyal parishioners who keep an eye on people like you.”
“What do you mean by people like me?”
“I’m talking about black witchcraft, Branwen Morgan. And well you know it.”
She pushed past Isobel with a face set to granite, unlocked the church door and slammed it shut behind her.
“Good grief!”
“I know,” said Branwen. “The thing is, I only got a smidgen of dirt from Olivia’s grave, and it took less than a minute. Someone must have tipped her off.”
“And someone was outside the house last night.”
“Exactly.”
“The doctor knew where you were too. I just bumped into him. Oh, and Branwen, I have to tell you something urgent.”
Linking arms, they walked back down the path to the lytchgate while Isobel brought her up to speed. “What I don’t get, though, is if Mervyn’s grandfather was guilty of something or other and he thinks we might find out, why does it matter so much to him, because he was sure as hell freaked out, especially when I said they looked alike?”
Branwen was quiet, and for a while they walked in silence. Suddenly she stopped and said, “You saw the fae! Do know how lucky you are? I mean, you’ve only been here five minutes and you actually fucking well saw–”
“I thought you did – all the time? She looked like the painting you gave me so I thought you must have–”
“No, no. I’ve worked on it for years, though. Offered them libations, alcohol mostly - but also bracelets and herbs…all sorts…you’ll see them in the trees. Sometimes I’m rewarded with blinding insights. Or if I’ve offended them I’ll wake up with my hair in hundreds of tiny knots I can’t get out, or everything will be switched around the room. But what I paint, well, it’s more like…how to explain…I hold the brush and that’s what happens. They live in the umbra, the darkest part of shadows. God, Isobel…I’ve never actually seen one walking in the forest, although I know some folk said they have.”
“Who?”
“To be honest, it’s hearsay. Riana told my grandmother who told my mother. Some folk in the village would come home screaming from the forest if they’d strayed in too deeply or gone over the wall, usually courting couples and the like – said they’d seen tiny, wizened creatures with paper white faces. Everything changed apparently, once the Fox-Whatelys sealed off the woods. There used to be a track that ran all the way to the house and beyond, but now as you probably saw, it comes to a dead end. They blocked off their land around the time of the miners’ uprising – no doubt to stop them coming near the house. Anyway, the track was completely dug up, traps were set and a stone wall built. And that was after all the deforestation for the mine itself. Some say the family angered the fae.”
“Actually, it wasn’t a nice experience at all. I felt ill. Everything blacked out and I had a horrific flashback to one of the bleakest, most terrifying times of my life, followed by a blinding close up of this man’s face. I thought I’d be sick and my head was banging so hard I swear an artery was about to burst. It was horrible.”
“That’s them all right. They do evil shit to you but you’ll get the truth. Thing is, they’re wild. There’s nothing gentle about it. But remember what I told you - there’s always a price to pay.”
“But I didn’t ask for anything.”
“No. But they have given and you must pay. As must I.”
“I don’t understand.”
“They want us to do something for them and we have to do it. If you run away now one thing’s for sure – you’ll spend the rest of your life being shown what fear and madness really are. And they will t
ake Immie.”
“Christ! What, though? This is so hard. I mean, do you really think we’ll solve this by raising Olivia’s spirit? Meantime people in this village are watching us and I’ve been attacked twice already. I want out, Bramwen. I really do. I want to go tonight.”
“Listen to me, Lady! If we flee the village to escape Rhys Payne and the like we’ll be plagued with the wrath of the fae for the rest of our lives. They get into your head, plant nightmares you won’t recover from and send you insane. Don’t think it won’t happen. And I can promise you this - there won’t be a psychiatrist on earth who’ll either believe you or cure you. So I think I’ll take my chances with Rhys and do the necromancy. You do what you like, but leave me the keys. And besides – you fucking promised.”
Jeez, this girl’s fire. It set the blood racing. “Right. Well, what if it doesn’t work?”
“It will. And while I’m doing it you can talk to those poor spirits who’ve been desperate for your attention.”
“The same folk whose bodies you say were never collected and therefore must still be on the estate grounds, maybe even underneath The Gatehouse?”
“Uh-huh.”
“So they will be the spirits opening drawers and crawling around…quite insane…”
“And?”
“Insane, Branwen. So how will they communicate with me?”
“Maybe they aren’t insane in the afterlife.”
“All right then, let’s assume this will work. Let’s say all goes swimmingly. What about whoever’s spreading gossip about us in the village? Might they try to stop us? I mean if Mercy May is–”
“That silly cow’s being used good and proper but she’ll put out the word, and you’re right – there are those who’ll not turn a hair at a bit of grievous. Rhys Payne’s lads have done time for it.”
“Okay, look I’m going to do this because I said I would. But I can’t lie – I’m scared half to death, and not so much from the spirits anymore as the locals. I wouldn’t put it past Rhys Payne or his family to come to the house. What if they turn up while we’re tranced out doing the ritual?
“I’ll do banishing rites before I come over. They should know better than to set me against the church, the lousy bastards. I’ll make it so they can’t get their arses off the sofa to take a pee let alone drive over to start a fight.”
“Banishing rites…?”
“Look, I know you feel we’re working totally in the dark, Isobel, and that you don’t believe a lot of what I say but I am asking you now to trust me, okay? Things will be revealed and often it’s never quite the way you expect or even what you think you’re going to expect… if that makes sense…? But there will be a light shone on this, I know it. I can almost see it. Please don’t go until I’ve tried.”
“All right. Let’s give it our best shot, it can’t do any harm.”
***
Chapter Thirty
Isobel
The remainder of the afternoon eased into evening, shadows merging with the dusk until light no longer reached the four corners of the room. From within the forest a vixen’s raw cry ripped through the air, and once again wet fog sank into the valley.
Branwen was due to arrive after eleven once she’d taken Immie to her father; but the hours waiting were fraught. She sat by the electric fire, stood up, walked around, switched on all the main lights closing curtains as she went…sat down again…And still it was only seven o’clock.
Perhaps she’d write to Nina again.
Finding it hard to concentrate on even the simplest of tasks, she reeled off one ridiculous sounding missive after another before deleting them all and starting over. Everything would seem absurd to the reader. Who would not think her out of her wits with stories of fairies, visions, creepy photographs on the pub wall and a new friend who disinterred graveyard dirt? What had loneliness done to this woman who had once been sectioned in a psychiatric unit?
Instead, she kept to plain facts – the local doctor’s resemblance to his grandfather, the mystery surrounding the patients’ graves and the terrible lynching of Branwen’s great-grandmother. About to relate last night’s disturbance outside the window however, she hesitated. What was the point of worrying Nina by having her think she was in danger? She had offloaded far too much already. In the end she added the incident as an aside, making light of it. It was high time she sorted out her own problems, and preferably without the aid of alcohol.
Especially tonight.
Branwen had explicitly said not to eat anything and definitely not to drink alcohol. They must both be fully prepared. “Meditate. Ask for protection and stay grounded. I’ll bring some oils and herbs with me.”
“Do I need to get anything ready?”
“Yes, can you close all the curtains and pull up the carpet in the room we’re working in? Let’s have the floorboards exposed for a circle.”
“Right.”
Truth be told, she thought, this whole thing felt like crossing a line. Accepting you could see spirits was one thing. But actively meddling, as in conjuring, was quite another. Could it be worse than what had already happened, though? Could raising Olivia Fox-Whately from the dead actually be more frightening than events so far encountered in her life? Surely, once you’d peered over into the abyss there was nothing else left to fear. Was there?
The atmosphere grew more fractious by the hour. The house held an air of expectation as if it was waiting, the shadowy alcoves, niches and corners darker than usual, and the ghosts so quiet it seemed they held their breath. On the mantelpiece the clock ticked hypnotically and the electric fire cranked with a heat that burned her face but left the rest of the room cold. Nothing warmed this house. Beneath the soles of her feet the floors were particularly icy, as if suspended only inches above the hardened winter earth. And was it her imagination or did the painting of Immie seem to come alive a little? She would look and then look again, to find the eyes glittered a little more, the expression increasingly inquisitive.
Leaning back in the chair she took slow, deep breaths, forcing a meditative state that would not come. Her mind wandered, time passing without notice as she dipped in and out of the depths of her unconscious mind. All moments had led to this, came the message. What was happening now and the experience in the park all those years ago, defined her entire existence.
After a while she bent her head and prayed.
“Dear Lord, whatever rites Branwen is planning tonight, it is with good intent. Please protect us both from evil and forgive us both for what we are about to do. Thank you, Lord, and Amen.”
A sudden and powerful burst of clarity flashed into her mind. There had been no official registers found for the asylum, fire accepted as the cause, so that had made it easy for people to disappear…but she had been shown a suitcase. A shabby leather case that smelled strongly of mould. A dark place. There were papers…evidence of something…this was the question to be asked!
A loud rapping on the front door catapulted her out of contemplation.
She looked at the clock.
Ten. Too early for Branwen.
On guard, she sat stone still, gripping the arms of the chair. This could be Lorna. Or Mercy. She would not be subjected to more verbal abuse. Had done nothing wrong. In fact, one had been paid rent and the other asked for help. So they could piss off talking to her like that. Anyway, she was entitled to privacy and for all they knew she could be in the bath.
Whoever it was knocked harder.
Oh, sod off!
A slight lull.
Then it started again. On and on and on. Insistent and prolonged.
“I know you’re in there!” Lorna Fox-Whately barked. “And I won’t have it, do you hear? You’re a trouble maker and I won’t have this going on in my property. I shall fetch the police.”
Isobel’s law-abiding heart slammed against her ribs. Until her inner rebel kicked in. Like they were going to come all the way out here - an hour-long drive in the dark and fog on winding narrow lan
es because a middle-aged woman might be holding a séance? Don’t make me laugh!
“I shall have you evicted. We are Christian people and this is absolutely against our agreement.”
She gripped the chair until the knuckle bones shone through. An agreement to what? Not to commune with the devil? Was that on the tenancy contract…?
Lorna pounded on the door with what sounded like all her weight, which was considerable, the final thump so violent it made the house shudder. “Open this door at once!”
Fuck off.
That woman was like the worst kind of demon, but still it made her heart lurch sickeningly. Lorna could and would do her harm if she could. A thought occurred – what if they had a key and changed the locks when she went out? And they would keep her money. Stupidly she’d paid up front. And on the back of that one another thought crossed her mind…Was the front door bolted from the inside? What about the back? It wasn’t safe here - and not as it turned out because of the ghosts of mad, unhappy people, but because of the neighbours. Lorna could easily call in the likes of Rhys Payne and his boys.
I’ll do banishing rites….I’ll make it so they can’t get their arses off the sofa…
Pray to God that Branwen’s rituals worked. If only she’d done them on Lorna too.
But all now was quite suddenly quiet. Like a thunder storm that had done its worst and was grumbling away to distant hills, leaving behind it the sharp, clear pelt of rain.
Tip-toeing into the hall, Isobel quickly checked the front door before scooting into the kitchen. The bolts were drawn across both. And all the windows to the ground floor had locks on them. She lay a hand across her chest. The woman could not get in, master key or no master key.
Even so, who still prowled around out there? And where was he - the quietly menacing family doctor? Well, it certainly seemed to spook them out if anyone either ventured onto their property or asked questions about their family. Their fear was palpable. Some displayed fear with physical aggression, some with barriers of authority, and others with thinly veiled threats. But fear was fear.
