Four hundred years ago, ten convicted witches were hanged on Gallows Hill. Now they are back…for vengeance.
Laura Phillips’s grief at her husband’s sudden death shows no sign of passing. Even sleep brings her no peace. She experiences vivid, disturbing dreams of a dark, brooding hill, and a man—somehow out of time—who seems to know her. She discovers that the place she has dreamed about exists. Pendle Hill. And she knows she must go there.
But as soon as she arrives, the dream becomes a nightmare. She is caught up in a web of witchcraft and evil…and a curse that will not die.
The Pendle Curse
Catherine Cavendish
Dedication
To Colin, without whom…
Acknowledgments
A huge thank you to my friends and fellow horror authors, Steve Emmett and Julia Kavan, who honed in like heat seeking missiles on all the plot holes and incongruities and showed me, as always, the right direction. Thanks also to historical fiction writer, Shehanne Moore for her friendship and support. Massive thanks to Don D’Auria, my fabulous editor, to Scott Carpenter, for the stunning cover and all the team at Samhain, who make working with them such a pleasure and a privilege.
I would also like to thank Joyce Froome, whose excellent and highly readable book, “Wicked Enchantments” (published by Palatine Books, 2010) provided so much valuable factual information on the history of the Pendle witches.
Finally, a shout-out for “Witches Galore” – my favorite witchy shop, in historic Newchurch - in - Pendle, right in the heart of where it all happened…
His spirit soared within him and flew up into the storm-clad sky as blackness descended and the rain became a tempest.
He flew. Lost in a maelstrom of swirling mists. Somewhere a baby cried until its sobs became distorted, tortured roars. Beyond, a black void loomed. He saw Alizon’s spirit just ahead and tried to call out to her, but his voice couldn’t reach her.
Beside him, another spirit cried out. His mother. He flinched at her screams before they were drowned in the mass—that terrible parody of some hideous child.
The blackness metamorphosed. An amorphous shape formed as his eyes struggled to see with their new vision—the gift of death. Small baby limbs flailed towards him. Eyes of fire flashed as a toothless mouth opened. Screeching, roaring and demanding to be fed. Demanding its mother.
His spirit reached out for his lover. Tried to pull her back. “Alizon!”
She turned anguished eyes to him. “It calls to me.”
He recognized it instantly. The blazing fire. The devil child. That cursed infant had come for them.
Again he reached out with arms that no longer felt connected to him, but he was powerless to stop Alizon being swept away, deep into the abomination’s maw.
“No!” His cry reverberated around him—a wail of anguish in a sea of torment.
Then…silence. Only he remained, drifting in swirling gray mists of time.
“I will find you, sweet Alizon. One day I will find you. And I will find the one who betrayed us.”
From somewhere, he heard an echo…
Chapter One
Heard the expression, “mad with grief”? It can make you do strange things. I should know. I once lived a happy life, married to a man I adored. I had a career, holidays in the Caribbean, even the perfect apartment.
Then in one short evening, that all changed. Rich died.
I fell into a pit of grief. And that’s when I became vulnerable. You see, I let my guard down. I didn’t know what I was doing half the time, and to say I made bizarre decisions… Well, certainly, they weren’t the most rational of my life. So they took advantage of my grief-madness. And stole everything I had left of me.
The dream clung to me. It called me back. In that half-life between sleep and consciousness, I felt its presence, like talons clawing at my throat. I saw blackness, pierced by flashes of bright, white light. I was dying. Someone—something—choking me. I had to break free before it strangled the life out of me.
I woke, panting and gasping for breath. My throat hurt and the skin felt tender to my touch. I struggled to remember, forced myself to breathe deeply and calmly. Finally my heart steadied down to a safe, rhythmic beat.
I peered over at the clock: 3:05 a.m. Moonlight shone through the bedroom window so brightly I didn’t need to switch on the light. In the bathroom, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. The silvery light from outside the frosted window cast shadows, making my face appear ghostly. Almost as if someone else peered out at me. I shook my head and saw the reflection of my long, blonde hair, ruffled and sleep tousled.
Something about my expression disturbed me. I looked haunted, somehow. My eyes lacked the shine and sparkle Rich used to love so much. But then they would, wouldn’t they? After what happened six months earlier.
I closed my eyes, gave myself up to his phantom touch, felt his fingers stroking my cheek. I nuzzled his hand, opened my eyes and lowered my arm. A sudden pang of longing hit me with familiar force. I closed my eyes again, desperate to regain the tender moment. This time it wouldn’t work. The thread was broken. I opened my eyes.
I stared at myself for a few more seconds, growing inexplicably anxious, until a wave of anger shot through me.
“Laura Phillips, for God’s sake, get a grip!”
I snapped the light off and started back towards the bedroom. Then stopped. Something felt wrong. That bloody dream again, making me jittery. I sniffed the air and shivered. It had been warm in the bedroom, but I was dressed only in a pair of short pajamas and the sudden chill raised goose bumps all over my skin. My breath misted. I hugged myself. It had been a lovely, sunny June day that had sent temperatures soaring, so it shouldn’t be freezing like this.
I half ran into the bedroom. The cold followed me. I dived into bed and pulled the duvet high up under my chin and curled myself, fetus-like, as I tried to stop my teeth from chattering. I stared out into the darkness. My heart hammered.
There was a movement in the corner. I held my breath. A shadow moved across and back again. It couldn’t be there. A trick of the light.
The damn curtain! I’d left the window open earlier, to air the stuffy room. That’s why it seemed so cold. I leaped out of bed, raced to the window and pushed the half-open curtain farther aside. A gentle, warm breeze from outside caressed my face, soothing me until I stepped back into the chill of the room.
But how could that be? How could the cold be coming from inside?
My heart thumped again. I peered at the clock. Three fifteen.
I crept back into bed. This time I pulled the duvet over my head, ensuring every bit of my body and every strand of hair were covered. Each second that ticked by, I imagined something moving around the room, ready to touch me. I say I imagined it. The trouble was, I felt its presence, although what it was, I didn’t have a clue.
I told myself I’d lived here for over twelve months now—six of those alone. I had nothing to be afraid of here, in my sanctuary. All the same, cocooned, with my knees tucked right up and my arms drawn in to my sides, I listened to the sound of my own breathing and prayed that would be the only sound I heard for the rest of the night.
I fell asleep to the sound of a howling wind and driving rain. It never occurred to me how odd that was, on such a balmy night.
The next morning, everything seemed normal in the light of a brilliant summer day. I told myself to stop overreacting. Then the phone rang and my best friend, Dawn, was in chatty mood. At least she would take my mind off things.
“Terrible storm in the early hours, wasn’t it?” I said. “I was surpris
ed not to see pools of water when I looked out of the window this morning, but it must have dried up. It’s a lovely day.”
“Storm? Are you sure? I never heard anything.”
“Yes, in the early hours? I got up to go to the bathroom just after three and the flat was freezing. Then I came back to bed and this dreadful storm started a few minutes later.”
“Well, all I can say is, I must have slept heavily because I never heard a thing. You’re right though, it must have dried up quickly, because I got up at seven and there wasn’t a breath of wind and no puddles. I’ve even had to water the garden. My new plants were looking a bit droopy.”
What? “Maybe I dreamed it,” I said, knowing I hadn’t. “I didn’t sleep too well.”
“Are you sure you’re okay, Laura? I can always pop over if you want.”
Why didn’t I want that? Normally, I would have welcomed Dawn’s company, but I heard myself say, “No, really. I’m fine. Just a bit tired.”
“You know you can always talk to me.”
Without warning, tears sprang to my eyes. These past months, I’d taken Dawn up on that offer more times than I could count. Ever since the awful night of Rich’s sudden death. I struggled to keep my voice steady. “I know, and I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done.”
“No need. What are friends for? You’d do the same for me.”
For no apparent reason, the nightmare flashed back into my mind. I touched my throat. It felt tender, as if… Why did I feel as if the dream had really happened? What was the matter with me today? I lost all desire for conversation and wanted to get off the phone, but Dawn had moved on to talk about something else.
“Have you thought any more about going back to work?”
A picture flew into my head. The school gates. Hormone-fueled teenagers texting on cell phones, chattering, flirting. In every direction, a sea of faces, younger than they thought they were, rebelling against anyone or anything that smacked of authority. Then another image. A classroom. Thirty fourteen-year-olds, most of whom cared nothing for the great reform acts that had given their ancestors the vote. My life. Teaching history to schoolkids. A shudder coursed through my body.
“No, not yet,” I said. “I’ve kept my options open. They’re keeping my post vacant, but I need to let them know before the end of term. They’re being very generous, all things considered.”
“Yes, but given what you’ve been through, it’s only fair. And you’re a damn good teacher.”
Despite my misgivings, I smiled. I’d always put everything into my work. Since last December though, the mere thought of throwing myself back into teaching had filled me with dismay. Now, I had four weeks left to make my decision about whether I would stay at Charnock Grove, the inner city comprehensive where I’d taught since I qualified ten years earlier. The longer time went on, the more convinced I became of what that decision would be.
I hadn’t the vaguest idea of what I would do with the rest of my working life, but at this moment, it barely registered on my list of concerns.
I forced a smile onto my face and hoped it transmitted itself down the phone. “Tell you what,” I said, “let’s get together for lunch tomorrow. How about Costa’s at one? Right now my head’s full of cotton wool.” I laughed and hoped it didn’t sound false. I needed to sit down. I could hear my voice, but somehow felt disconnected from it. As if I were in a tunnel. It echoed around me.
Dawn’s voice floated into my ear. “No problem.” She paused. “You sure you’re okay?”
My response came from some autopilot in my brain. “Nothing a decent night’s sleep wouldn’t cure.” Maybe I would be nominated for an Oscar this year. Perhaps not though, as Dawn sounded hesitant.
“Well… if you’re sure.” Then she seemed to decide. “Okay, see you tomorrow then.”
I replaced the receiver on its charger, and pushed a long strand of hair over my ear. I touched my sore neck again and remembered. The choking. Strangling. The tenderness circled my neck. Like a necklace. Or a noose. I shook my head. Crazy thoughts.
I cast a brief look around the tidy living room. The glass table could do with a dusting and the laminate floor needed a going-over with the floor mop. Housework. Normal stuff that I had always done without a thought. Get on with it, girl, I told myself as I grabbed a large cushion and pummeled it into submission. I caught sight of the photo of Rich on the little occasional table and burst into tears.
“Oh Rich, why? Why? I can’t do this by myself. I’ve tried, but I just can’t. I need you back. I need you so badly…” Tears streamed down my face. I clutched the photo and sobbed. So many things I wanted to say to him. So much love I wanted to pour out to him. The physical pain that invaded every pore of my body made it difficult to breathe. I sucked in air and it fed my tears. I squeezed the photo frame so hard I heard a crack. Fresh tears flowed when I saw the glass, broken cleanly in two. Through the mist in my eyes, I saw Rich’s smile, spoiled by the damaged frame. I set the photo down on the table, picked up a small ornament and hurled it against the wall.
It smashed into tiny shards of crystal. It should have made me feel better. But, as always, it didn’t.
An hour later, I’d recovered my senses a little and sat, coffee in hand, at the long breakfast bar, which separated the kitchen from the living room. As I sipped the strong, black liquid, my thoughts drifted back to the previous night. For once, my rational side kicked in. I must have imagined the cold, maybe even the storm. After that bloody nightmare, anything was possible. After all, dreaming about a noose around your neck didn’t happen every day, did it?
I took my empty coffee mug to the sink and checked the wall clock. Eleven thirty. What would I do for the rest of the day?
I heard Rich’s voice in my mind. You always enjoyed a good book. Try it. Take your mind off things.
“I haven’t read a book for months. Not since before you…”
High time you started then.
I smiled. Always practical, my Rich. I wandered over to the bookcase, but stopped to glance out of the window at the street below.
Seen from three floors up, the people moved around like animated dolls, crammed into a narrow thoroughfare they shared with traffic going one way. Fifty years earlier, this apartment building had been a brewery, supplying employment for hundreds of people. Now it provided two-bedroomed, open-plan living for thirty households.
I looked up. Not a cloud to be seen as the sun dazzled in a clear blue sky. A picture postcard day, set in an urban landscape.
Rich and I had thought long and hard about moving out of the suburbs to come and live in the center of the city, but it made all kinds of economic sense.
I smiled as I remembered our celebratory meal on the day we signed the contract for Number 18, Lane’s Brewery. Delicious poached salmon and a bottle of Bollinger at Piccolino’s.
How much had happened since. Twelve months—seemed like a lifetime.
Seemed like yesterday.
I felt the heat of the sun through the glass and opened the window a notch. The sounds of the street floated up. Indistinct calls, the occasional car horn and the general incessant thrum of city life. Smells too wafted up in the still, warm air. Garlic from the Italian takeaway as its lunch trade began—close your eyes and you could swear you were in Milan. Traffic fumes and even the occasional hint of tobacco smoke drifted up to me.
God, that took me back years. Rich and I—happy, laughing students who met at university during Freshers’ Week and became inseparable ever after. We joined the drama society and the table tennis club, got drunk on cheap white wine and dipped our toes in the river on warm summer picnics. And all the while, Rich would smoke those damned French cigarettes. Gauloise or Gitanes. They stank like moldy cigars and I begged him to give them up. Every time I opened my wardrobe, my clothes reeked of them. So he switched to Benson and Hedges, but he didn’t lik
e them much. For a while he tried a pipe, which really didn’t suit him, so he quit altogether. He didn’t want to contract lung cancer, emphysema or any of the other sinister diseases that threatened to cut his life short. Ironic.
I turned away from the window, wandered over to the sideboard and picked up a wedding photograph. My ten-years-younger self smiled up at me, dressed all in white, with a traditional lace veil, my hair swept up into an elaborate chignon. My eyes, shining blue and sparkling with happiness, as I held the hand of the only man I’d ever loved.
I sat down with the photograph, kissed two fingers and placed them on the cold glass over Rich’s mouth. More tears trickled down my face.
“Oh Rich, you said we’d be together forever. You said we’d grow old together. You promised…” I slipped off the sofa and onto the floor as I gave way to uncontrolled sobbing, even worse than earlier. My breathing quickened, but did no good. Hysteria. Another panic attack. I had pills for that, of course, only I hated to take them. I was frightened I wouldn’t be able to stop. But some days I wondered, why stop anyway? Why not just slip away into peaceful oblivion? Maybe then I could be with Rich again. So one rational day, I hid the bottle. Now I couldn’t even remember where it was.
My mind filled with the awful memories of that stormy night six months ago. Rich—an hour late. My casserole bubbling away in the oven.
“I kept calling you, but you didn’t answer your phone. It just kept ringing out. And then the police came. They told me…”
It all flooded back. The policeman and woman had spoken. I had listened, but their words floated into me from far away. It couldn’t be real. In a moment, they would tell me they had come to the wrong apartment. Rich wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be. What about all our plans? What about our life?
But of course, they were at the right address. The cushion of surreality deflated and the reality of gut-wrenching, incomprehensible loss took hold.
The Pendle Curse Page 1
