by T J Podger
Adrian knew about Agnes Sampson, he knew she’d been a midwife and why she was killed and, looking from the mind of a man in the 1950s, it was very probable she might have been coerced into a confession. But did he really believe in ghosts or possession? Prior to North Berwick House, he would have been adamant they didn’t exist.
“So you think she haunts the house? Why?” Adrian asked.
Frederick frowned at him; he shook his head in disbelief. Perhaps Adrian hadn’t understood fully what he had been told.
“It was her house,” Frederick stated so bluntly it took a moment for Adrian to comprehend.
“Agnes Sampson lived in North Berwick House?”
“Yes, and she has never left.”
With that, it seemed the conversation was over. Frederick stood and for a man who looked so ancient while sitting, he was most spritely taking himself to the door and wrapping his scarf around his neck, pulling his coat on, and placing a hat upon his head. Just before he left, he turned and looked at Adrian.
“The worst part isn’t the women who went mad, it was their husbands who killed them because of it. I was one of them.”
With that, a blast of cold air caused Adrian to shiver. He hoped it was the air from the open door and not the statement Frederick had left them with. Frederick left and the pub stayed silent.
“What the…?” Mack didn’t finish his sentence.
“Did you know any of that?” Adrian asked.
Mack shook his head vehemently. “No! I swear. I knew of old Mary Asher, she went mad but she was old and sickly. She…” Mack didn’t finish his sentence.
“She was killed by her husband?” Adrian enquired.
“I don’t know for sure, it was a rumour that he had put her to sleep, so it was. He did her a kindness.”
Adrian raised his eyebrows; not sure putting anyone to sleep was a kindness. “What about Frederick?”
“He drowned his wife in the lake,” the landlady said, while wiping down the bar.
“He did what?” both Mack and Adrian asked at the same time.
“I don’t know the full details and I don’t know why. He never lived at the house, and he spent many years in prison. My parents knew him, obviously. When he was released from prison, he came back here, much to everyone’s surprise. But he keeps himself to himself and is no bother.”
“Is what he said true?” Adrian asked, concern laced his voice as he thought about the changes in Agnes.
“Not quite as he said it. Old Mary Asher, she had the dementia. Forgot where she lived. My mam found her naked by the lake one night,” Mack said.
It seemed to Adrian that the lake was a catalyst to what he’d heard that evening. Frederick killed his wife in it, Mary was found by it, and Adrian was unexplainably drawn to it.
Chapter Eight
For two days he watched Agnes, following her as subtly as he could from room to room. She was changing and although, initially, those changes had been slow to develop, he thought they were speeding up. He didn’t want to ask her, her attitude towards him was different. He’d been woken that morning to find her astride him, gyrating and using foul language to describe what she wanted him to do to her. He complied, what red-blooded male wouldn’t, but as before, when she was spent, she had simply climbed from the bed, bathed, dressed, and made breakfast as if it had never happened. Adrian wasn’t sure if he loved, liked, or despised this new Agnes, but he couldn’t help but be aroused by her.
The voices that whispered around the house were a constant and he’d gradually learned to live with them, to answer them back when he was alone. He’d called the cat regularly and left a saucer of milk on the floor each evening. The saucer was always full the following morning but he didn’t care, it was there if the cat was thirsty.
He took his pad and pencil down to the lake on frosty cold days to sketch or to write. He found comfort in sitting by the dunking chair and when he studied his sketches, there was always a long-haired woman in the chair. He could never picture her face, though.
One thought that ran constantly through his mind was how had Frederick killed his wife. Had he strapped her to that chair and dunked her? Had he pushed her in and hoped she couldn’t swim? His morbid curiosity had started to take hold of his mind. He drew scenes of a woman splashing around, of another with rocks tied to her waist. He added another figure, a man standing on the bank. He couldn’t draw his features, though. Not because he didn’t know what the man looked like, but he couldn’t fathom why he felt the need to place himself in each drawing.
“Adrian, I do wish you’d snap out of this mood,” Agnes stated that evening over dinner.
“What mood?” he enquired, completely taken aback by her statement. Prior to that they had been discussing the merits of a kitchen garden.
“You’re so…I don’t know what the word is. Since we moved here, you seem to be skulking around, as if we’re all a plot for your latest novel.”
“Maybe you are, my darling,” he replied, and then chuckled to lighten the conversation somewhat.
“I’m serious,” Agnes said with a sigh.
“Okay.” Adrian placed his cutlery on the table. “Agnes, you’ve changed and I’m trying to figure out why.”
She didn’t answer at first but he saw her features harden. She placed her palms on the table and looked back at me. “I have changed, Adrian, and I’m pleased I have. I would have hoped you were pleased, too.”
There was strength in her voice, a challenge that he rose to. “I am pleased, Agnes. You are more…” he struggled for the words that wouldn’t sound offensive.
“I am more sexual, Adrian, because I feel more liberated. Was that what you wanted to hear?”
He felt his cheeks flush and that angered him. Agnes had never spoken that way before and it threw him a little. “I am surprised by your…awakening, yes.”
“Does it bother you?” she asked.
“No, but I’m concerned, and I wouldn’t be the loving husband if I wasn’t.” Adrian wasn’t sure how to word what he really wanted to say so he didn’t elaborate further.
“I don’t think you were overly concerned the last time,” she said. Adrian noticed she had leaned forward and had a husky tone to her voice.
It wasn’t the time or the place for Adrian to continue the conversation. Instead, he stood and walked around the kitchen table. If Agnes’ sexual awakening was to continue, he’d be in charge of that. He held out his hand. At first Agnes looked at it, quizzically.
“Stand, Agnes,” he said. She complied and he led her to their bedroom. He doubted very much her enthusiasm for sex would extend to fucking over the kitchen table.
Something happened that evening. He wasn’t sure if it had been the conversation at the pub, over dinner, or the liquid Agnes had encouraged him to drink. She had convinced him that he would keep his erection for longer.
They fucked. It was the only word that Adrian could attribute to what they did. He didn’t recognise his wife, and he didn’t recognise himself. They fucked for hours, the whole evening and into the morning. Agnes was insatiable and would not have stopped had it not been that Adrian was exhausted. He had to physically push her away from him and then listen to her cackle like a demented harlot. Adrian had stood in their bedroom with sweat glistening his skin, watching his wife writhe on their bed, tangled in sheets covered in blood from their ferocious fucking and ejaculate. Her hands were between her legs and she had thrust her hips into the air as she continued to pleasure herself.
It was when she took her hand away that he saw it. He froze, the heat that had been coursing over his body just mere seconds before was like ice that prickled. A birthmark stood out just inside her hipbone. A birthmark he was convinced he hadn’t seen before.
“Fuck her,” he heard. He spun looking for the owner of the voice. Agnes cackled some more.
“Fuck her!” the voice shouted. He covered his ears.
FUCK HER! The words screamed around the room, bouncing off the walls.
He shouted back knowing his words were drowned out. His body had shook and his vision blurred. He’d felt tears prick at his eyes.
Adrian held in the scream when his vision returned and he saw his wife. She wasn’t alone and he had no idea how the other woman had been able to get into their bedroom unnoticed. Both women were naked and touching each other. Both women were smiling at him, calling to him, coaxing him to join them. He saw the potion on the sideboard and walked to it. Picking it up, he’d noticed his hands shook but even if he wanted to, he could not have stopped himself.
He placed the rim of the bottle to his lips, its foul scent assaulted his nose and it was all he could do not to heave. Instead, he tipped his head back and allowed the liquid to flow into his body.
It was instant. His brain fired off uncontrollable messages that jerked his body. His mouth felt so dry he couldn’t form words. His hearing seemed heightened. He’d heard all the individual women in the room whispering, calling to him, offering advice and encouragement. He could smell sex and he was able to determine which woman gave off the strongest scent. It was she he headed to first. He didn’t know her name; she had long red hair and resembled the woman he had drawn.
He wasn’t aware of his wife when he positioned himself on his knees and between the woman’s legs. He didn’t hear her arousal as he lowered his head and sucked, licked, and nibbled at the woman. While his face was buried between her thighs, he felt Agnes kneel behind him. She rubbed her bare body against his backside, drew her nails down his back, and then licked at the blood that seeped from the wounds. He moaned in both pain and pleasure.
Once again, Adrian lost track of time, he moved between the two women, satisfying their demands. He rested while they tended to each other. He sipped more potion until his brain fizzled and he was fit for nothing. The two women then turned their attention on him. He could do nothing but lay and be pleasured.
Adrian woke in the middle of the night. He was alone on the bed and the stench of sex filled the air. He could hardly remember the past twenty-four hours, other than snippets of two women writhing beneath him, legs tangled, and bodies sweating. He wanted to call out but his throat was dry and sore. He heard himself, though; a scream ran through his mind as if there was a consciousness inside that was trying to climb out. He wasn’t sure what was real. Had the evening been a dream? The bedroom suggested otherwise but the voices in the room, the redheaded woman, were they real? He needed to find Agnes but found himself unsteady on his feet. He weaved across the room as if he’d sunk too many pints of beer. He bounced off the doorframe, cursing at the sting he felt across his shoulders.
The stairs swirled as he tried to descend them, at the bottom he encountered Agnes. She was dressed in her usual button to the throat white blouse and her skirt. She looked at him as if he’d turned mad. He could see her mouth moving but not understand her words. She reached out to him and he wanted to swat her hands away. She appeared to be guiding him back upstairs and he felt he had no strength but to comply.
“What is happening to me?” Adrian managed to croak. His voice was strained and it hurt him to speak.
“Nothing, my darling,” he heard, although he wasn’t sure it was Agnes’ voice that had uttered the words.
Women scuttled along the corridor, some were laughing; all were wet, as if they had just walked through a terrific downpour. Their hair was plastered to their heads, water pooled at their feet, leaving damp footprints on the wooden floor. Adrian felt the wetness as he stepped, barefoot, through the small puddles.
He waved his arms as if to swish them away as they circled him, it appeared they floated and they mocked him. He wanted to scream, to close his eyes, but Agnes was still propelling him forward.
“Can you see them?” he asked.
“Yes, my darling,” was all she replied. She didn’t elaborate on who her friends were and why they were wet.
Adrian was too exhausted to speak any more. He collapsed against the hall wall and slid to the floor. Agnes tried to encourage him to stand; he shook his head, needing to close his eyes. He felt hands all over his body, running up his thighs, pulling on his ankles and wrists. In a second he was spread-eagled on the floor, utterly powerless. His mind blanked out. He knew he had opened his mouth but his scream was trapped in his body. He could hear it, ringing around his mind, and those were the last conscious things he could remember.
Adrian woke some hours later. He’d felt so cold, and his skin had a purple tint as bruises started to merge. He was completely beaten both physically and mentally. He’d winced as he tried to stand, seeing for the first time the scratches and bite marks to his legs, his stomach, and his arms. He managed to get himself upright. The house was quiet, not one whisper could be heard. He’d staggered to the bedroom and found it empty, the bed still unmade from the previous evening. He dragged on some trousers, threw a jumper over his head, and slipped his feet into shoes. If he had thought hard about it, he would have packed a bag but he had been too keen to leave the house. Not knowing what the time was, and not caring, he would walk to the pub if he had to. He didn’t want to spend one more minute in North Berwick House, and he had no desire to see or speak to Agnes until his head was clear.
It hadn’t proved to be as easy as he’d hoped, though.
As Adrian descended the stairs, he heard chanting. Although no lights appeared to be on, a glow filtered out from under the living room door. He crept and stood outside, listening, trying to work out what was being said. He heard multiple voices and all very strange, strangulated at times. It was as if a foreign language had been spoken but not one he was familiar with. He was adamant not to enter the room but decided to leave the house and see if he could peer through a window.
A bitter wind blew as he left the kitchen, it immediately chilled him to the bones so underdressed as he was. His feet tingled as his bare flesh froze in the leather brogues. He was determined, though. All the curtains were closed in the living room and he silently cursed. However, he noticed a sliver of a gap, if he twisted his body in a certain angle he would be able to see through. Although not a great view, what he could see was naked women dancing around the room. He frowned; Agnes was in the middle of the group, her head thrown back and her arms outstretched. Her body appeared to be covered with a paint of some sort.
The sound of a twig snapping had him spin on his heels. His heart pounded in his chest and he covered it as he saw Frederick standing behind him. Frederick beckoned with his hand; Adrian followed him a safe distance away from the window and detection.
“She has been possessed, so had my wife been, she was also an Agnes Sampson,” he said.
“I don’t understand,” Adrian started. Frederick held up his hand.
“You do, Adrian, I know you do. I didn’t kill my wife; I defended myself when she and her coven attacked me. But I was convicted of her murder and I kept quiet and did my time. I wanted to burn this place to the ground but you came along and bought it. I’ve been watching, waiting for you to see the truth.”
Frederick spoke way more articulately than he ever had in the past and Adrian became aware the Frederick in the pub, the old man in the corner, was a cover for the real one. Adrian wasn’t sure why, but he believed him. He understood every word the man spoke and he nodded along.
“What do I have to do?” he asked quietly.
“Leave, if you want to live.”
“Or?”
“Or burn this place to the ground. To kill a witch, Adrian, you need to first know she is. If she survives the dunking stool, then burn her at the stake.”
With that, Frederick turned to walk away. Adrian reached out and grabbed his arm. Frederick looked over his shoulder.
“Save your soul, Adrian, and release Agnes.”
A scream from the house distracted him, he turned to look back to the window and when he did, he felt the arm he had been gripping was gone. When he returned his gaze to Frederick he wasn’t there, in Adrian’s hand was an overcoat, an old green military o
ne. The same coat Frederick had been wearing just mere seconds before.
Tears tracked down Adrian’s cheeks, he was utterly confused, unable to comprehend what had happened, but Frederick’s words resounded around his mind. He knew what he had to do.
He slipped his arms through the armholes of the coat and shrugged it up over his shoulders. He placed his hand in one of the pockets and felt metal. He wrapped his fingers around a large knife. He felt his blood seep as he closed them tight and the warmth comforted him. When Adrian returned to the window, all was quiet.
To kill a witch, you have to first know if she is one. The words ran on a continuous loop around his mind. Was she, though? Did the ghost of her ancestor possess her? He wasn’t even sure he believed in those things but something was most certainly wrong with Agnes, he had decided. He would not live in fear of her so his choice was to leave or kill her.
He chose to leave…initially.
Chapter Nine
Adrian had decided he’d take an overnight bag to the pub, and maybe call Mack to see if the cottage was free for a couple of days while he sorted out the rest of his things. No matter what Agnes said, he refused to stay in that house another minute longer, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to stay with Agnes, either. He knew her love for the house would prevent her from leaving, it was clear and she’d said it often. He would move back south to their marital home and they could decide what their future held from there. In the meantime, he needed clean and warm clothes.
Bravery flushed through him as he returned through the kitchen door and stomped to the stairs. He didn’t care if he was heard. He made his way to the bedroom and pulled a small overnight bag from the top of a wardrobe. He began to pack some basic items.
“What are you doing?”
Agnes stood, fully dressed and with her hair tied in a neat bun in the doorway. It was a complete contrast to how he had seen her last. He strode over and ripped at her shirt. She covered his hands with hers, digging her nails into his skin.
