The Last Witch of North Berwick House

by T J Podger

  Chapter Seven

  Although now winter, Adrian set about to repair the dunking chair. He was obsessed by it and was up with the larks each morning, working until sweat rolled off him and the sun had long set. In North Berwick at that time of year, there weren’t many working hours of light, but he continued day after day until he had, what he thought, resembled the original thing. He had no real idea why it was so important to him, but when it was done he was filled with a sense of satisfaction and purpose. There was a reason for that chair to be repaired, he just wasn’t aware of what it was.

  As the days got shorter so did Agnes’ patience with Adrian and his obsession. She had started to resent his prodding and poking into her house. She had no idea what it was all about, of course, since he’d become so very secretive. She decided one day to investigate.

  While Adrian was in the cellar, Agnes stole into his study. It was a room she rarely visited, other than to mop the floor and wipe down the shelves. She left his desk alone, not wishing to disturb his manuscript in any way. Adrian never numbered his pages so she’d have hated to be the one to shuffle paper into a pile and for him to then spend hours putting it back in order.

  She sat at his desk and looked at the piece of paper in the typewriter. She read and frowned at her discovery.

  Why is Adrian writing about me? The thought ran through her mind. She read on and became more confused as she realised the person the notes pertained to had been dead some time. She wasn’t aware Agnes Sampson was a real woman from the fifteen hundreds and assumed Adrian was writing another of his fictional ghost stories but using her name. She wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or not. She’d never been mentioned, other than in the dedication, in any of his books. She also wasn’t overly pleased to be a witch. She chuckled to herself. She knew Adrian would often give his characters a name and then change it in edits; she hoped he’d do the same. Still, what she read did seem to answer some questions.

  Adrian had been skulking around the house for some weeks. Agnes also remembered him mentioning that he heard a cat, or was it a dog, she wasn’t sure. She’d thought it part of his virus but began to wonder if Adrian had a deeper underlying illness. He was seeing things, hearing things, and she was sure she’d read somewhere of an illness that could cause that. Adrian had been too young to be drafted into the war but most certainly had been bombed out of his home as a child. Perhaps he was suffering from that and North Berwick House seemed to bring that to the fore. Agnes decided she’d do her own research and maybe speak to her doctor.

  As Adrian walked past the well, he swore he heard that damn cat again. That time there was an echo. He stopped and looked down. It had been too dark and too far to see all the way to the bottom. He pursed his lips and whistled, listening to the sound travel and hopefully arouse a cat if one was stuck. He got no reply and decided to lower the bucket; perhaps it might prompt whatever was in the well to climb inside. The winch squealed in protest at being unwound so fast and it was with satisfaction that Adrian heard a splash. He left the bucket there, deciding to check in an hour or so. Instead of depositing his coat in the kitchen and making tea, Adrian headed straight to his study. He was keen to get on with his notes. As he walked through the doorway, he immediately noticed something was different. He looked around, nothing seemed out of place but a smell. His study had the scent of a library, of old books with cracked leather spines and ink. Instead, a waft of perfume hit his nostrils. He raised his face and sniffed again. It was definitely perfume and most certainly his wife’s.

  “Is she checking up on me?” Adrian asked himself quietly.

  He rushed to his desk. If she had sat in his chair she would have seen the notes he’d typed up still in the typewriter. He’d wondered what she’d thought of when she saw her name. He knew he wouldn’t ask, though. Anger flowed through him. He didn’t like the thought his wife was checking on him. He disliked that she’d entered his study.

  “This room is my sanctuary, my writing space, my private room.” He was completely unaware of how irrational he sounded as he muttered those words.

  Adrian ripped the page from the typewriter so violently it tore in half. He screwed it into a ball and threw it across the room. He swiped his arm and scattered the manuscript that had lain untouched for days. The only things he was concerned about were his notebooks. He opened a drawer and placed them gently in, cursing that the key for the lock had long since been lost. When he was done and sat back in his chair, a breeze caused him to shiver. A whisper caused the hairs on his neck to stand on end, and he spun around. There were no open windows.

  Adrian stood and walked to the chimneybreast, he placed his hand in the open space, hoping he’d feel a breeze blowing down, he didn’t. He pulled his coat around him tighter. The whispers became louder and he let go of the coat to cover his ears. It made no difference, and soon he was able to actually pick out the words.

  “Agnes Sampson. Guilty as charged. Agnes Sampson. Guilty as charged.”

  “Stop it!” Adrian shouted. “Our Father, who art in heaven…” Adrian began to recite The Lord’s Prayer; wracking his brain for the last time he’d attended church.

  He ran to the door and reached for the handle. He tugged and tugged, the door was jammed and the whispering became louder. Adding to the words was a cackle of laughter, a meow from a cat, and somewhere in the middle of it, his own voice screamed out. He kicked and bashed at the door.

  “Adrian?” he heard. He wasn’t sure where the sound came from and whether it was real or not.

  “Stop it!” he commanded again.

  His name was being called louder and he tugged hard on the doorknob. The door flew open, the whispers and noises stopped, and Adrian was so surprised the door had opened, he’d fallen and landed on his backside.

  “Adrian, are you okay?” Agnes asked as she rushed to his side. She placed her hand on his arm.

  When he looked up at her, she smiled gently at him. He wondered why she didn’t look concerned, or frightened, or perhaps she hadn’t heard his panic.

  “The door was stuck,” he said, quietly.

  “I thought as much, I pushed as hard as I could and it eventually opened. Have you hurt yourself?”

  Adrian looked at her. She smiled, she looked as if she wanted to chuckle at his misfortune, but her eyes were different. He wanted to scoot back, away from her. She’d had blue eyes when he’d married her. He distinctly remembered, how could one forget the colour of one’s lover’s eyes? Yet, the Agnes crouching in front of him had green eyes, very green eyes. He swallowed hard. He could not let her know he believed something wrong. He began to fear for himself.

  “Stupid door, I should have fixed it a while ago,” he said, pushing himself up and dusting himself down.

  Agnes made no mention of the scattered pages but just smiled some more. “Dinner will be ready soon,” she told him in her usual singsong voice.

  “I’ll wash up and be right there,” he replied.

  Agnes left and Adrian turned a slow circle to study the room. No noise could be heard. He’d left and pulled the door closed behind him. That time, he locked it. He felt a cold sweat run down his back, it caused his shirt to stick to his skin. He shivered, not sure if he was cold or still so terribly scared by the experience. He headed to the kitchen, the warmest room in the house.

  Once there, he removed his coat. He sat and watched Agnes move around the room, chatting about her day as if the past half an hour hadn’t happened. She placed a dish of homemade steak pie and mashed potatoes in front of him. A jug of gravy was next presented and a cellar of salt. No matter what he thought of Agnes in that moment, he could not fault her cooking, especially when some ingredients were still either scarce or expensive. He tucked in, listening to her rattle on about future plans for the house. She wanted to invite people to stay and since she had few, if any, real friends, he wondered who. She mentioned one or two names of colleagues from her teaching days, and he was sure she’d also said how much she had dis
liked them. However, he nodded and agreed in appeasement when necessary. He also found himself the recipient of a long list of chores to get bedrooms ready for their impending visit. It seemed, to Adrian, they had jumped from a conversation about wanting to invite guests to writing a date on their calendar.

  When the meal was finished and Adrian had collected the dishes, he decided to wash them himself. Although that would be something Agnes insisted on doing, he wanted something to do other than dwell on recent events. It was still upsetting to think of his episode.

  “I think I’ll bring some more logs in, darling. We seem to be a little low,” Adrian announced. He received a nod but nothing more.

  Agnes took herself off to the sitting room, where she had set up a sewing machine and had intentions of making new curtains. He was pleased she had something to occupy her time; it meant she left him alone for long periods.

  He slipped his arms into his coat and buttoned it up; he contemplated wrapping a scarf around his neck but didn’t plan on being outside for too long. The wind was biting. He did, however, grab some gloves and a torch.

  Beside the log pile was a small barrow that he started to fill. The clonk as wood hit the metal was a satisfying sound. It reminded him of the hours it had taken to split the logs. It was only when he paused that he remembered he wanted to check the bucket in the well. Before he reached it, he’d heard a meow. He grabbed the handle and wound it quickly to raise the bucket. He’d expected to see the cat that seemed to plague him. As it came closer, he shined his torch and a black mass leapt with a screech at him. He’d dropped the torch in his effort to cover his face. He was too slow; claws scraped down his cheeks. He closed his eyes and in a second it was over. He opened them and saw the bucket swinging, no sign of the cat, if that was what had leapt at him, and his torch broken at his feet. He cursed, determined he would kill the cat next time he encountered it. It had to be a stray and if its ability to mouse was next to poor, he had no need for the thing.

  It appalled Adrian, an avid animal lover, to think he’d even contemplated killing the cat.

  “Damn you!” he shouted, knowing there was no one to hear. However, the trees rustled and he swore he heard a chuckle in reply. “Damn you, as well,” he added to the voices swirling around in the wind.

  The following morning Adrian had woken to a stinging on his cheeks. He raised his hand to feel a sticky substance. The previous evening after the cat seemed to be a blur, he struggled to recount anything other than returning to the house without the logs, having a glass or two of wine, and holding a damp cloth to the scratches. Maybe he’d drunk more than he thought. He turned to see an empty bed beside him. Agnes had always been the early riser of the pair. Adrian had often been writing late into the night and slept in as a consequence. He swung his legs from the bed and slipped his feet into slippers. His pyjama bottoms were twisted and he straightened himself up so he was decent. He headed for the bathroom.

  Adrian leaned in close to the mirror; a white substance was plastered over the two scratches. It had to be Agnes and one of her many potions, as Adrian called them. He scrubbed his face clean of whatever it was and ran the bath. It hadn’t been that long ago that a tin bath in front of a coal fire was classed as a luxury! He settled in the warm water and closed his eyes.

  A hand around his genitals startled him. He opened his eyelids to see Agnes kneeling beside the bath with a few buttons open on her shirt. She had one hand inside, fondling herself while the other squeezed and stroked.

  “Agnes!” he called out, surprised by her behaviour. “The lights are on!”

  Agnes was old-fashioned, and of the opinion that any sexual relations were in the bedroom only and after the lights were turned off. For her to initiate contact was unusual, but her touch had him aroused. He watched her fondle her breast, her eyes closed, and her lips slightly parted. She moaned and it was the first time since they had been married that she’d sounded her delight. He rested his head back and allowed her to bring him to ejaculation. Without a word, she rose from her knees and left the bathroom. Adrian was more than perplexed and speechless. He couldn’t call out for her or question her on what had happened. Instead, he left the bath, dried his body, and dressed.

  When he ventured downstairs, Agnes was in the sitting room with her embroidery. Adrian backed from the room before she saw him and headed back to the kitchen. He made himself some tea and was startled, for a second time, by a knock to the window. He looked up to see Mack at the window with a wide smile. Adrian beckoned to the back door and soon Mack was sitting at the kitchen table and waiting on a mug of strong tea.

  “Mack, do you think we could have a man to man chat?” Adrian whispered, he looked around the room, knowing full well Agnes wasn’t about but not sure if something else was.

  Mack frowned. “Of course we can, now?”

  “No, later, how about a pint this evening?”

  “Sure. Adrian, you look worried, is everything okay?”

  “I’m not sure. Tonight, we’ll meet for a pint.”

  “Ah, Mack, you’re here.” They both heard. Agnes had walked into the kitchen; she smiled at Adrian, patting his shoulder as she passed.

  “Would you like some tea, my dear?” Adrian asked cheerfully.

  “Oh no, thank you, I’m all tea’d out,” she said, laughing.

  She then proceeded to give Mack a list of further works she wanted on the house. It seemed, unbeknown to Adrian, he was still ‘project managing’ the renovation, even though he didn’t think that necessary at all. He believed he was more than capable of doing that; in fact, Agnes was more than capable herself.

  Agnes took Mack to show him the rooms she wanted decorated, leaving Adrian alone in the kitchen. Something wasn’t right. Adrian didn’t class himself as an overly educated man but just the manner in which Agnes now held herself was off. Her behaviour that morning could have been one of a wanton woman, a lady of the night, a curb crawler Adrian thought the latest term was. As much as he enjoyed it, he was left feeling conflicted.

  “What’s your poison?” Adrian heard when he entered the pub. For a moment he stood stock-still. “Adrian?” Mack called, a frown creased his forehead at his friend’s sudden discomfort.

  Adrian shook himself and then chuckled. “Sorry, yes, poison. I’ll have a pint of Best, please.” He removed his coat and unwound his scarf, hanging both on a hook by the door.

  As Adrian moved to join Mack, he noticed the old man sat in his usual chair in the corner of the room. The old man raised his glass and Adrian nodded. He wanted so desperately to speak with him but after the last encounter, would prefer to do that with Mack not around. He didn’t think he could pooh-pooh the old man as quickly as Mack had. He also began to wonder why; was there a relationship between Mack and the old man he wasn’t aware of?

  By the time he had taken his seat at the bar, a pint was placed in front of him. Adrian smiled kindly at the landlady, missing her gentle touch and witty conversation.

  “What has you so desperate for my company?” Mack asked and then laughed.

  “I don’t know if desperation was the motive. I thought it might be nice, a chaps’ night out,” Adrian replied. For a split second he’d felt hesitant to confess his real reason. The thought of Mack dismissing the old man had caused that hesitation.

  “Well, it sure is nice to get out on a night like this,” Mack answered.

  The two men sat and sipped on their pints of beer, discussed local affairs and the house. It was after the third pint that Adrian felt able to open up–although it was probably the alcohol that had enabled him.

  “Something’s different about Agnes since we've moved here. I can’t quite put my finger on it,” Adrian said.

  Mack replaced his beer glass on the bar. “In what way?” he questioned with a frown growing on his forehead.

  “I don’t know…she…she’s changed, she’s more forthcoming, in the bedroom department…and…she seems more…aggressive.” Adrian stumbled through his sent
ence, not knowing just how much to divulge.

  “Ah, I see,” Mack replied. He picked up his glass and took a long draft before wiping the back of his hand over his lips. “It’s the isolation, so it is,” he said, finally.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s an isolating lifestyle up here, Adrian. You have your writing and all that, but Agnes? Well, maybe she needs a hobby or a child, perhaps. It’s the isolation; you mark my words. It gets to the weaker sex easier than us.” Mack nodded his head totally convinced by his words.

  “It’s the house,” both men heard. Mack sighed and Adrian turned towards the sound of the old man in the corner.

  “Why do you say that?” Adrian asked. Mack opened his mouth to speak but Adrian placed his hand on his friend’s forearm. That time, he wanted to hear. “I know about Agnes Sampson,” he added.

  The old man nodded slowly. “Then you’ll also know she haunts the place. You should leave before it’s too late.”

  “That’s enough Frederick,” Adrian heard. That time it was the landlady who had spoken. “Adrian, it’s all a load of folklore, nothing more. Pretty much all the old houses up here are supposed to be haunted. You shared a bedroom with the White Woman, if it’s to be believed.” She laughed as she took both his and Mack’s glasses, although not drained, and refilled them. “On the house.”

  “Thank you, but I think I’d like to hear what Frederick has to say,” Adrian said defiantly. He picked up his glass and walked over to the old man. He sat opposite him. “Tell me what you know.”

  It took a moment, and when the old man started to talk, the pub quietened. He told of living as a small boy in a cottage, just outside the garden of North Berwick House. Of the many women who went mad in that house, and how it was believed that Agnes Sampson had possessed them. She wanted revenge for her unjust torture and murder, it was said.