by Alex Bell
“Have you been here before?” I asked.
“Once. On a school trip.”
“So what was it you wanted to look at this time?”
“I just want to get some ideas.”
“For what?”
“For what might have turned the witch mad.”
I wasn’t sure Jem would approve of this expedition, but I paid our entrance fees and the three of us went in. Like the shipwreck museum in Looe, this was an old stone building, absolutely stuffed with artefacts. We went past cabinets filled with maze stones, witch mirrors, puzzle coffins with beeswax poppet dolls and fortune-telling teacups.
The sea witch section had an ancient pair of bone prickers carefully displayed in a wooden box, and I read that these were one of the tools West Country witches were supposed to use for making sea magic and wind rituals. If fishing boats had no success with their catch, they’d suspect they were victims of a sea witch’s curse, and would tie strings of hag stones to the side of the boat to counteract it.
Next, Shell and I turned the corner and came face-to-face with a witch’s bridle – a terrible iron muzzle designed to fit over a woman’s head and force four sharp prongs into her mouth against the tongue and cheeks. The device prevented the woman from talking so that she couldn’t call out and curse her attackers while she was being whipped and paraded naked through the streets. The tongue prong had spikes on it so that the woman would slice her tongue open if she tried to talk. The bridle even had a chain attached, presumably so that the witch could be led about like a dog on a lead, yanked around by a chain while her mouth filled up with blood. When I peered closer at the horrible thing, I could see ancient reddish stains on it.
I guessed this was the section they were talking about when they warned about the museum being unsuitable for kids and nervous people. The bridle was making me pretty nervous myself, and Shell didn’t seem to be able to take her eyes off it. I think she would have stood there and stared at it all day if I’d let her. By the time we’d walked past a pair of bone-crushing bootikens, a Pear of Anguish and a Witch’s Chair covered in one and a half thousand iron spikes, I was starting to feel a bit sick.
Finally, we reached the section with the witch bottles and stared in at the collection behind the glass. One old bottle was surrounded by the yellow bones, rusty nails and human hair that had been inside it. They all looked quite similar to the one we had found in the fireplace seven years ago. When I read the placard I saw that no one really knew for sure what witch bottles were supposed to be for. Some said they were used as curses, others that they were protective magic and some suggested that the witch bottles were “spirit houses” that could be used to contain an evil spirit.
We were just about to leave the museum when we stopped to look at the wall at the exit. There was a list of names printed there, of the women who had been accused of witchcraft and put to death in Cornwall. Shell spotted it first, tapped me on the arm and pointed wordlessly.
The name Slade was there on the wall, and so was Merrick – the same name belonging to the girl Christian Slade had provided for in his will.
It was right there: Cordelia Merrick, accused of witchcraft by Christian Slade and put to death in the year 1577 – the exact same year that the Waterwitch was built.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Emma
Shell and I bought some food from a nearby shop to eat in the car and then started the journey back across the moor. I was glad to avoid driving in the dark. Perhaps it was just the low-hanging cloud and mist but people did tend to get lost a lot, even when they were travelling along a road they knew well. I was glad of the Joan the Wad amulet hanging from my neck, too. The Queen of the Piskies would lead us safely home, even if the satnav failed.
We talked about Christian Slade and the woman he had accused of witchcraft, Cordelia Merrick, the whole way back. “He must have had an affair with her,” Shell said. “I bet he was the father of her daughter. That’s why the girl’s second name was Slade. And why he left her the ship in his will.”
“You know what that means, though, don’t you?” I said. “If you’re right about Annis Merrick being Christian and Cordelia’s child then it means you and Jem are distantly related to both Christian Slade and the witch.”
“Mum always said that we came from a long line of witches,” Shell replied. “And maybe that’s why I’ve felt a sort of connection to the woman at the Waterwitch. It’s not just that she’s a witch, it’s that she’s related to me, too.”
“But what do you think went wrong with her and Christian?”
Shell shrugged. “Maybe his wife found out so he exposed her as a witch to get her out of the way?”
“Nice guy,” I said.
“I’d want to curse someone’s ship if they did that to me,” Shell said. “Wouldn’t you?”
“I guess so.”
It was only mid-afternoon by the time we arrived in Looe but the overcast sky meant that many of the buildings had their lights turned on already. Just as I looked at the dark facade of the Waterwitch, the light in the second-floor corridor came on and a shadow passed across the window, as if someone had just walked along there.
Shell saw it, too, and frowned. “We never use the top floor,” she said. “It must be her. Wandering around. She does that sometimes.”
“It’s probably Jem,” I replied. “He must be back by now.”
“It isn’t Jem,” Shell replied, and she sounded so sure.
We went into the Waterwitch and found him sitting at the kitchen table staring at a cold mug of tea.
“Were you on the second floor?” Shell asked.
He looked up. “When?”
“Just now.”
He shook his head. “I haven’t been up there today.”
“We just saw a light turn on from outside,” I said.
Jem frowned. “I’ll go and check.”
“Take Bailey with you.” My cowardly German Shepherd had picked up his bear and clamped it between his teeth the moment we entered the building so I took it away from him and he gave me a hurt look. “You can have it back in a minute,” I promised.
Jem and Bailey went up and returned a moment later. “There was a light on but there was no one there,” Jem said. “I checked all the rooms – there was nothing. Perhaps I switched the light on by mistake from downstairs. Anyway, I just put the kettle on if anyone wants a cup of tea?”
“No thanks,” Shell said. She went upstairs without another word. I gave Bailey back his bear and we returned to the kitchen with Jem.
Chapter Thirty
Shell
The birds were waiting for me when I got upstairs. There were so many of them that I could hardly enter the room. I had to push hard against the door to get them to move out of the way, and the entire floor was glossy with black feathers and shiny, shiny wings.
They knew what I wanted and had already picked out a witch ball for me – a black onyx one that sat expectantly on my pillow with the birds clustered around it, looking pleased with themselves. I walked over and the birds cleared a path across the floor for me. I sat down on the bed and picked up the witch ball. It was larger and heavier than the red one I had used this morning so I cradled it in my lap and stared down through the glass to the swirling flecks of silver, right in the centre.
The birds rustled their wings and I let them get closer to me on the bed, their small bodies pressed up against mine, the beat of a tiny hundred hearts keeping rhythm with my own as it sped up inside my chest. I guess I knew I was going to see something bad in the witch ball, but I never thought it would be quite so awful.
The woman – Cordelia Merrick, as I now knew her to be – was there in the glass almost straight away this time. But she wasn’t on a clifftop surrounded by flowers. She was on a harbour wall, wearing a dress that was dirty and torn, surrounded by people who were jeering and shouting at her. I could tell it wasn’t spring any more because the crowd were all wearing thick cloaks. A bonfire sent great billow
s of smoke and glowing red sparks out over the grey ocean waves, and a magistrates’ bench had been set up close to the pier. I realized that Christian Slade stood alongside it, dark-haired and handsome, dressed in a black cloak fastened at the neck with shining pearl buttons. His boots were polished; his gloves and hat looked soft and warm. His grey eyes were cold, though, and the hard expression in them made me shiver.
Suddenly, Cordelia broke away from the man who’d been holding her, ran straight to Christian and threw her arms around him. But Christian did not return her embrace. Instead, he pushed her away so forcefully that she sprawled on the cobblestones at his feet. Then he looked around at the blonde, beautifully dressed woman standing behind him. I remembered the fair-haired figurehead in the ship plans for the Elizabeth and wondered if this woman could be his wife. She gave him a chilly look before turning and walking away through the crowd. Christian tried to follow her but one of the magistrates grabbed his arm and indicated that he should stay. He scowled, reluctantly turning back to witness the scene in front of him.
A couple of men had hauled Cordelia to her feet. She struggled desperately as they dragged her on to the pier, but there were too many of them and only one of her. She looked back at Christian, screaming at him, but he just stared straight ahead with a stony expression.
I thought they were going to throw her into the sea to drown, but, instead, one of the men reached into the flames of the bonfire with a pair of iron gloves and brought out a hideous metal contraption – one that I recognized from the museum earlier. It was a witch’s bridle, glowing and smoking and sparking with red-hot heat.
Cordelia screamed and I saw the expression on Christian’s face change. He looked genuinely shocked at the sight of the bridle. More than shocked – appalled. He started arguing with one of the magistrates, but the man only shrugged back at him indifferently.
A wooden block was carried on to the pier and Cordelia was forced on to it, her arms and legs secured with black leather straps while her head hung loose over the end. Seeing this, Christian started forwards, as if to intervene, but one of the magistrates moved to block his way.
Push past him! I was silently screaming at him. Don’t just stand there! Do something!
But Christian didn’t push past him. With one last glance at Cordelia, he set his jaw and turned away, refusing to watch.
The red-hot mask was fastened over Cordelia Merrick’s face – a long metal band reached down over her head, split at her nose and formed a solid strip of metal across her lips. I knew that the muzzle would force four prongs into her mouth, to hold down her tongue and press against her cheeks. The device would have worked just as well without being heated in the flames first – it was just one more level of cruelty.
Cordelia jerked and bucked against her leather straps, and I could smell the dreadful scent of burning skin and hair. I bit my lip and forced myself not to look away. Eventually, Cordelia lay limp and lifeless on the wooden block. The men untied the straps holding her down, but then something happened, something changed. The crowd weren’t laughing and clapping any more, they were looking worried, they were backing away from the wooden block. And then I heard it, too, faintly at first, but getting louder and louder. It was that demented laugh I had heard before. It was soft and muffled, coming from within the witch ball, but it was definitely the same sound. The woman was lying there with steel spikes piercing her tongue and half her face burnt off, and yet she was laughing, and laughing, and laughing…
She turned her head so that she was looking along the pier towards Christian. Thinking it finished, he had looked back at her again, but then her arm slowly raised to point right at him with a trembling hand. He blanched and stumbled back a few steps, an expression of utter horror on his white face.
The laughing took on a bubbling sound and I peered closer, dismayed to realize that there was blood seeping out from underneath the mask, trailing down her neck, running on to the wood. The men quickly tied her hands and feet together and, the next moment, she was thrown into the sea to sink beneath the cold, grey surface. Clouds of steam hissed up angrily where the water touched the glowing, hot mask.
Christian was on his knees with his head in his hands as the rest of the crowd surged forwards to catch their last glimpse of the witch. The water closed over her head and then she was gone, leaving nothing behind but the blood running down the grooves in the wooden block. Then it was coming out of the witch ball itself, creeping in thick, sludgy lines down my wrists and arms.
I cried out and dropped the ball, leaped to my feet and watched the sheets turn slick and scarlet, all slippery with clots and platelets, filling the air with the metallic scent of death and dying.
It was so overpowering that I gave a dry heave and thought I might be sick. I would have gone straight from the room if the birds hadn’t all started frantically pecking at the wardrobe.
I hurried over, threw open the doors and the sight of Jem’s poppet was like having an icy bucket of water thrown on top of me. There was a huge, rusty nail sticking right through its head! With a cry of dismay I grabbed the nail, dragged it free and flung it into the far corner of the room. I thought of how the ship light had come crashing down this morning, right when Jem happened to be sitting beneath it, and how his poppet had ended up with a burnt hand before, and how he kept complaining about headaches. It seemed like too big a coincidence. I’d always known that the witch hated Christian Slade but maybe her hatred for him spilled over to his descendants, too?
With a slow dawning of panic, I realized that I had made the most terrible mistake. The witch wasn’t just mad, she was angry, she was dangerous and she didn’t want anyone’s help, least of all ours. My poppet was unharmed but it didn’t make me feel any better to know it was Jem she was focusing on. I gathered up both poppets and shoved them into the little safe that had been put in the wardrobe for guests to leave their valuables. Then I slammed the door closed, keyed in a combination and hurried out of the room and down the stairs.
As I reached the bottom step I heard a low creaking of hinges and, before my eyes, the cellar door swung slowly open. I stared at it from the end of the corridor, my hand gripping tightly around the banister. I had the strongest sense that there was something crouched there, just out of sight, looking at me.
As I walked forward, there seemed to be a deep coldness beating out of that open doorway, like a long dead heart stirred back into sluggish, groaning life. My nails dug into my palms as I approached, finally stepping around the open door, face-to-face with the dark entranceway.
I’d half expected the witch to be standing there but the doorway was quite empty and the deserted staircase stretched down into grey shadows. There was a damp, mildewy smell in the cold air, stale and unpleasant. It was the smell of a place that had been shut up in the dark for too long, a place for dead things.
I strained my ears, listening for the laugh, that terrible laugh that was like spiders stroking your skin. But there was nothing except for a silence that seemed to scream and scream out of the shadows at me. In fact, a scream would almost have been better. A scream would have been easier to bear.
I knew there was something there. My eyes rested on the open doorway at the foot of the stairs, the one that led into the cellar itself. I thought it was dark and empty at first, but then I saw them.
Fingers.
There were fingers curled around the edge of the door frame. And they were bleeding. Blood clotted around the nail beds and ran in a thin line over the knuckles. It was the witch. It had to be. Suddenly, the fingers vanished and the door down there slammed, loud and hard and final, as a great rush of freezing air came racing up the staircase towards me. I stumbled back, raising my arm before my face to try to protect myself from a blow that never came. The upper door shut so hard that the entire staircase seemed to shake and a shower of dust came falling down from the ceiling, settling over my hair like a veil of spiderwebs.
A couple of waxy water beetles fell from the cracks i
n the wooden beams, landing with a stomach-churning splat upon the floor, their exoskeletons splitting open upon impact and a thick, viscous white goo eeking out in globs. I remembered all those water insects that had come chittering and skittering out of my hairbrush and disappeared into the floorboards upstairs. The impact of the door slamming must have shaken them loose.
But I could hardly spare a glance for the water beetles, could hardly even acknowledge them at all. Because they were nothing – nothing! – compared to the vile, awful thing that was slowly but surely dragging its massive body underneath the crack of the cellar doorway.
Chapter Thirty-One
Emma
Jem shook his head. “You can’t be serious?” he said.
“I’m only telling you what happened,” I replied. “My wheelchair rolled down the corridor as if there was someone pushing it. I thought the floor must be sloped but when I went along it this morning my chair never once wheeled by itself. It’s just odd, that’s all. This place feels odd. I mean, what happened to you in the library just this morning was pretty strange, wasn’t it? You could have been killed.”
“This building is hundreds of years old,” he said, shaking his head. “Accidents like that aren’t that strange. Fear breeds fear, that’s all. I wish you hadn’t gone to that witch museum. If Shell and I really are related to Christian Slade and the witch that he had put to death, then Shell’s going to be even more worked up about this place.”
I sighed and wrapped my hands around my mug of tea.
“God, I wish that fly would find a way out,” Jem said, looking over his shoulder. “The buzzing is driving me mad. I keep hearing them around the place. I hope there isn’t a dead bird in one of the chimneys.”
