Chapter Four
JULIET MAYSTONE WAS becoming disconcerted. She had thought the strange happenings would have stopped by now.
She was wrong.
The night of the incident, an ethereal voice filled her room as she tried to sleep, apparently trying to say something: ‘Allld … Gre … Saam … Cr …’ But Juliet smothered her head and ears under a pillow and forced herself to sleep.
The next morning, she dropped and smashed her mug of coffee when a shadow flittered across the tiled kitchen floor, as if someone had run past her.
When nothing more happened for the rest of the morning, she regained her rational grasp on reality. After thirty minutes on her treadmill, she went food shopping, returned home, and stocked her fridge and freezer. Everything was bought in surfeit, leaving the refrigerator crammed by the time she was done, and although she couldn’t possibly expect to get through it all alone, she at least had the option of variety.
Being in her empty house kindled loneliness in her. She resolved to call her parents.
The dial tone rang for an age before an answer came.
‘Hello, Juliet Maystone!’ her mother answered, elongating every word.
‘Hi, Mum,’ Juliet said and paused, as if waiting for permission to say more.
‘How are you, my angel?’ The word ‘angel’ became ‘ayyyngel.’
‘I’m fine, Mum. I was just thinking of you and Dad and thought I would call.’
‘Aw, sweetie, how lovely,’ her mother said mechanically. ‘You’re most welcome to come and visit.’
‘I’ll see when I can.’ Her parents lived in Marbella, Spain. It wasn’t hard to travel there, but Juliet liked to keep herself busy, and she had Chanton Hillview to manage.
Mr and Mrs Maystone were one of the first couples to win the UK National Lottery jackpot in 1994. Because it was a substantial amount of money, Juliet had grown up in wealth, but as soon as she turned eighteen, her parents moved to Marbella. She had wanted to stay in Chanton, so her mum and dad bought her the café and left her their house. As an only child, she’d taken it as their acknowledgement that she’d become an adult, their way of recognising and supporting all that she had achieved and would achieve.
‘Well, let us know in advance, darling,’ her mother said. ‘We’ll pay for everything.’ Because her parents rented out property across Spain and had made profits on various investments, their money wasn’t wearing thin.
‘Thank you, Mum. Something happened yesterday,’ she said tentatively. Even though she was twenty-five, she felt reduced to the age of ten whenever she spoke to her mother. ‘I was almost hit by a car.’ Her body relaxed; it was good to tell someone about the incident.
‘One second, Juliet, bear with me.’ The voice disappeared, and Juliet heard her mother talk to someone else in the background. ‘I’m back. Sorry, what did you say?’
‘I said I was almost hit by a car. It could have crushed me.’
‘Really? Gosh, sweetie … Well, I’ll get your dad to wire over some money. You go and treat yourself; forget all about it.’
‘No, Mum. It doesn’t really matter. I just wanted to talk about it.’ Hurt was apparent in her voice.
‘Well, you’re alive, aren’t you? That’s all that counts.’
‘Yes, I suppose.’ Juliet held back tears, mentally telling herself to stop being so stupid and self-centred.
‘Anyway, sweetie, your dad’s in the swimming pool. I’ll have to dash. Let us know if you’re going to visit. Kisses, mwah!’
‘Can I say hello to Dad quickly … ?’ But Mrs Maystone hung up mid-question.
Fighting off her self-pity, Juliet found a trashy novel to read and placed herself far inside of it. When her mind drifted back to the phone call, she rationalised that it was childish to expect a reaction from her mother anyway. Gran would have cared, she thought. Stop it, they do care.
Finding things to do, she sketched up a new layout for the café and fantasised about redecorating the entire place. Later on she cleaned the house, worked a shift at a local charity shop she volunteered at, went cycling, read a book on nutrition, ate dinner alone, and then had a long bath. The whole time she was alert and half expecting something seemingly paranormal to occur.
That night passed without any strange happenings. On Sunday, she did some garden keeping and then spent the rest of her day practising Spanish and working on an assignment for a diet and nutrition home-study course she’d enrolled on a few months ago. The course was purely out of interest, but some of what she’d learnt so far was useful for the café too. And learning Spanish was just a practicality for when she visited her parents.
On Monday morning she was in the kitchen filling the kettle with water and thinking of the car incident, of how lucky she was to be alive. With a smile, she looked up at her reflection in the window. The only problem was, the reflection wasn’t her own. Somebody else’s face was staring back at her.
Throwing herself backwards, she screamed and fell onto hard tiles. The impact hurt her wrists, but there was no time for pain. When she stood up, the image was of her now. She touched her face to validate, then rotated her wrists to soften the pain inflicted in her fall.
As she turned to leave the kitchen, she heard a voice, crystal clear. ‘Help me,’ it said. A chill prickled down her spine. She ran to her bedroom, wanting to sob. But what was the point? I can’t cry, no. Covering her ears, she waited until her confidence returned. When it did, she decided to seek help.
Remembering someone she’d heard of, she pulled out her laptop and Googled ‘Contact number Tamara Trewin Lansin Island Willow.’ The website she was looking for appeared. She clicked the link, then read the ‘About’ section:
Tamara Trewin, the last living descendent of the famous Lansin Island Witches. Psychic. Medium. Healer. Clairvoyant. She performs psychic readings, dream interpretations, energy healings, and more. Party events are considered. Tamara also harnesses the ability to communicate with spirits: your loved ones who have passed on. To book an appointment with Tamara, call the contact number below. Located in Willow, Lansin Island. Directions can be given over the phone.
Juliet squandered no time. She asked for an appointment to see the medium, and, as if by fate, Tamara had a cancellation for the next day.
Deciding what to wear for the appointment proved difficult; she checked both of her wardrobes and just couldn’t decide. She felt fragile. What if the medium wanted her to do some kind of ritual dance or something? What have I gotten myself into? Having never been superstitious before, she dreaded the meeting and was utterly embarrassed about booking it in the first place.
There was no denying the phenomena she’d witnessed, and getting to the bottom of it was the most logical step, even if it meant seeking help from unusual sources. Or so she told herself. With that logic firm in mind, she shoved on the most basic clothes she had.
A green jumper-style hoody, black skinny jeans, and fur-lined boots were sufficient. After all, there was no one to impress in the little hamlet of Willow. On the way out, she remembered to grab a pair of gloves.
Buses to Willow ran only once every hour and a half, making Juliet almost wish she’d purchased a car. But as she lived in walking distance of every place in Chanton she needed to visit, and transport to Amiton town centre ran on a frequent basis, she’d never had much need of one.
On arriving in Willow, she remembered the directions she was given: Facing the plaque in front of the white willow tree, follow the path to the left. It’s the second house along.
The houses were primarily thatched cottages, some newer and larger, and all built to match the style of the smaller abodes that appeared centuries old. It was a quaint and picturesque place, where time seemed to move slower.
‘Are you lost, love?’ A man’s voice grabbed her attention.
‘No, I’m just getting my bearings. I think it’s this way.’ She pointed.
‘Ah, visiting Tamara?’
‘How did you know?’
‘It�
��s the only reason anyone comes to Willow,’ he said, matter-of-fact.
‘Oh. I suppose it is, yes.’
‘She’s a descendant of the Lansin Island Witches, you know? More rightly, a descendant of some of them, you see.’ He shook his head in acknowledgement of the wrong committed all those years ago.
‘Yes. I read that on the Internet.’
‘The Internet!’ He snorted. ‘I can’t get my head around this technology.’ He rambled for a while about people’s privacy and how technology would someday bring the end for us all, and Juliet nodded along. There was no point being rude.
‘Yes, I know. It’s terrible,’ she offered. Personally, she loved the Internet; it was her favourite way to shop. But she couldn’t expect everyone to have the same opinion.
‘Anyway, I’m holding you up, aren’t I? You be sure to tell Tamara I said hello.’ He smiled a pleasant but rotten-toothed smile. ‘My name’s Peter. She’ll know who you mean.’ He turned and waved.
It was that time of year when the white willow tree had lost some of its leaves. Almost thirty metres tall, it was in the centre of the hamlet and appeared enormous compared to the cottages.
The day was cold and the wind nipped at Juliet’s face, but she wanted to read the plaque in front of her:
Legend tells of a willow tree here in the centre of the hamlet. In the sixteenth century, the tree was abnormally tall and lived an impossibly long life. It is said that the Lansin Island Witches worshipped the tree, extending its life and causing it to grow over fifty metres in height. After the horrific witch burnings on the island, the story tells of the willow tree withering and dying. No evidence has been found to prove or disprove the tale, but this willow tree has been planted in memory of the legend, and in memory of the innocent people who were burnt alive.
Juliet had never cared much for the history of Lansin Island. But, with the phenomena she’d been experiencing, she contemplated whether the legend could be real; stranger things had happened the past few days than an oversized tree living a long life.
Steady raindrops began to fall, so she made a move, ducking her face away from the rainfall.
Tamara’s house, to the left, two doors down, looked like the oldest cottage around. It was fairly small, but the roof appeared newly re-thatched. Plant pots were dotted about and vines climbed neatly up the sides of the building. It looked loved.
With only two minutes until her start time, she knocked on the door and hoped she wasn’t disturbing an appointment already in session.
The door opened slowly.
‘Hello, hello. You must be Juliet Maystone. Please come in.’
‘Yes, that’s me,’ she confirmed as she was directed inside. ‘Thank you.’
‘I’m Tamara. It’s wonderful to meet you. Come take a seat.’
The room they were in had a low ceiling, wooden furniture, and a floral rug in the centre. The rug seemed old—not tatty, but the design was outdated. Juliet thought of the word ‘hovel’ as she gazed about, although the room wasn’t unpleasant in the slightest, just confined.
An open fireplace, lit, was to the far side, and warmly clothed the living area. Although it was cosy enough for Juliet’s standards, she could imagine the entire place going up in flames, with its thatched roof and all.
‘I just bumped into … Peter? He said hello and that you’d know him.’
‘Peter is a conspiracy nut. He didn’t ramble in your ear for too long, did he?’
‘No, just a little.’
Juliet sat down across from Tamara after being offered a hot drink but kindly refusing. She noticed a large chest in the corner of the room, intricately detailed with a pattern of flowers and leaves, and next to it, a broom.
An image of Tamara flying on the broomstick popped into Juliet’s head, but she quickly batted away the fantasy, condemning herself for being so childish and for getting herself into this situation.
‘So why did you come today?’ asked Tamara. ‘You didn’t give any information when you booked. I have not prepared like I usually would.’
‘Sorry. I didn’t know how to say it over the phone, and I’m not sure what you can do to help.’ After a pause, she added, ‘I’ve never done anything like this before.’
For the first time, she noticed what Tamara was wearing. The medium had on a dark purple robe that covered her whole body. It didn’t look as ridiculous as Juliet would have expected, but it did clash hideously with Tamara’s orange hair.
Tamara asked, ‘Do you believe I can help you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t seem to know a lot.’
‘I know that a week ago, I wouldn’t even have thought of coming here.’
‘Do you not believe in the work I do then?’ Tamara’s voice was raw, like a sound from the Earth itself, grindingly natural.
‘Not really … no.’ Juliet winced. None of this matched her frame of reference.
‘Please leave, then. I can’t help you.’ Tamara glided to the front door and held it open. Juliet rose proudly to leave, but as she reached the exit she expelled a heavy breath and began to cry.
‘Are you okay?’ The medium closed the door and turned to her guest.
‘This isn’t like me. I never cry like this. It’s not that I don’t believe in the work you do. It’s just that I’ve never experienced anything like this before. I’ve had a horrible week, seeing things that aren’t really there, that aren’t possible. I need your help … please.’
‘How do you know these things aren’t actually there?’
‘I don’t know, but strange things keep happening and I want it to stop,’ she said, frustrated, and hoping to avoid more cryptic responses.
‘Come sit back down and you can tell me the whole story. But first, let me tell you a little about myself.’
They sat at opposite sides of the room, facing each other. The fire glowed behind Tamara, silhouetting her body.
Juliet used her gloved hands to dab her tears. She quickly composed herself and pushed her blonde hair out of her view.
Tamara’s eyebrows pulled in as she looked down at the floor and rubbed her hands together awkwardly. Then she peered about in an eerie manner, as if seeing through the walls and viewing the entire hamlet in one sweep.
‘Do you know the history of this island?’ she asked.
‘I know what I learnt at school.’
‘Yes, but do you know the real history?’
‘Is what I learnt at school not the real history?’
‘Of course it’s not. I know the truth about my ancestors.’ Tamara’s voice compressed with a serrated sound. ‘I am the only living descendant left. My sister died ten years ago, and I have no other family.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Do you know what my ancestors were capable of, the witches who once lived here? They were powerful. They worshipped a willow tree and it flourished with their magic. They helped crops grow, they controlled the weather, they healed the sick and the wounded’—frantically, she picked up pace—‘they communed with the dead, they communed with the animals, they spiritually travelled between this world and the Otherworld. You come here, and you say you don’t believe in the work I do, in the gifts that have been passed down to me in my blood, the gifts I have practised with my whole life. You can’t be helped, if you don’t believe.’
‘I believe you know your … trade.’ Juliet instantly regretted her choice of words.
‘But you don’t believe the history of my ancestors, the real history of Lansin Island?’
‘It’s just not what we were taught.’
‘You were taught wrong.’
Juliet ignored the medium for a moment and thought about what she’d learnt at school. From what she remembered, in 1542, King Henry VIII introduced an act declaring the practice of witchcraft a crime punishable by death. The population of Lansin Island at that time was roughly eight hundred people, and when the islanders heard of the Witchcraft Act, paranoia spread. A
group of women in Willow were accused of sacrificing livestock, casting spells to destroy crops, and engaging in orgies and devil-worship. These women, many others, and a few men across the island were rounded up—a total of one hundred and forty-three. Over the course of five days, they were burnt alive, thirty at a time, before it was put to a stop.
As far as Juliet could remember, it was the worst case of witch burnings recorded in the history of Britain, maybe even Europe.
There were no trials. The islanders took it into their own hands, using cattle to bring rocks from the hills to build platforms. Each was made circular with a hole in the middle to support the stake, and each wide enough to pile wood and hay around the victim. Wooden platforms would have sufficed, but in their hate and paranoia, they built thirty of stone, maybe expecting an ongoing witch crisis. Rock would endure. And it had endured, right to this day. Now the nearly five-hundred-year-old weathered courtyard of stone platforms was the island’s main attraction: The Burning Grounds.
Attempting to get the appointment back on track, Juliet smiled and said, ‘Maybe we were taught wrong, then. I’ll have to think about it more in my own time.’
‘You will.’ Tamara was frank.
‘So, are you a Wiccan? Or … erm, a different type of … Pagan, is it? I don’t mean to be ignorant. I’m only asking out of curiosity.’
‘I’m not religious. There’s no magic in religion.’
That’s a bit harsh, was Juliet’s initial thought, but she kind of agreed, not being religious herself.
‘Okay. But don’t Wiccans practise the sort of things you do?’
‘I’m a witch. Witches practise witchcraft; we use magic. Some witches follow a religion, or they are on spiritual journeys, or both, or whatever they want to tell you. I do not agree with their ways. Magic should not be doused by all that nonsense.’ The medium’s final sentence had an impatient tone to it, sounding like a master annoyed at repeating himself again and again to an apprentice who incessantly failed.
‘Why do you call yourself a medium, or a psychic, or a clair ... ?’ She stopped, unable to recall the word.
The Shadow Box: Paranormal Suspense and Dark Fantasy Thriller Novels Page 121
