The Pendle Curse

by Catherine Cavendish

  “I bookmarked it. I’ll show you.”

  I went over to my laptop, clicked onto my bookmarks and scrolled down the list. I found the one I wanted, clicked again, and an error message flashed up on the screen. Martin leaned over my shoulder.

  “Never mind, I saved it.” I selected my list of recent documents and clicked again. No result. “I don’t understand.”

  “Probably a technical glitch.”

  I sighed and stood up. “I’m going to have to go back to Pendle, aren’t I? To find the rest of the answers?”

  “No.” Martin hit the table with the flat of his hand. “That time is past. We’re free now.”

  “Free? I don’t feel free. Anything but. Now I find out I’m related to a bunch of the most evil witches on record.”

  “You don’t even know if this letter is genuine. Some crank could have posted it up there.”

  “Oh yes? And how many records exist of Jennet Device having a husband called Henry Sutton and giving birth to a child in the spring of 1635?”

  “That means nothing.”

  “No, Martin, it means everything. I…” I began to sway. The room hummed and Martin moved forward, calling to me through a thick fog. Behind him a shadow came closer, trying to cloak him in itself. I reached out. Martin caught me before I fell. Now we were both enveloped by the shadow. Martin struggled with it, but I wanted to wrap myself in its warmth.

  “He cannot have you. You must come with me.” He held me tightly to his chest. It should have comforted me. Made me feel safe. So why did I feel more scared than at any time since I’d been at the farm with those witches?

  The shadow vanished. For a second, I seemed to be wearing that old blouse and skirt I’d worn in my last vision of Malkin Tower, and we were both back there.

  But that couldn’t be right. Martin shouldn’t be there, should he?

  I wrenched myself out of his arms. Martin began to change. His clothes became shabbier, old-fashioned. Poor quality linen shirt over woolen breeches. His features remained dark, enigmatic, but something was different.

  He put his hand out to me. “Come with me now.”

  I was propelled forward, and suddenly I was back there, in that long-ago village where people milled around, going about their everyday business. No one paid any attention to me. As if I had become invisible again.

  Malkin Tower—derelict, its roof caved in, door smashed, walls half-demolished and stones from them robbed. Fifty years maybe had gone past since the last time I’d seen it.

  Like a film, the scene changed and I stood inside the wrecked building that had once been Demdike’s home. A group of people clustered around a small table, above which a noose hung.

  I recognized old, haggard Demdike and her daughter. Martin joined them. No longer Martin. James Device. Now I began to understand. And I began to pray.

  James wasn’t alone.

  “Dawn!”

  She glared at me with a malevolence that chilled my bones.

  “No, not Dawn,” James said. “Not any longer. What you are seeing is a shadow. Look more closely. See with your new eyes.”

  Dawn began to shrink, transforming before my gaze.

  Soon a young girl in a gray dress, with long, dirty hair and an expression of pure hatred, stared back at me.

  “Jennet Device,” James began. “We have sought you out, and now you must pay for your betrayal.”

  “You can do nothing to me.” The girl’s voice sounded like that of a much older woman. It wouldn’t have been out of place coming from Demdike herself.

  I shuddered.

  Demdike—her infirmities gone—approached the girl. “For your sins you perish today. For your grievous betrayal. The others were ignorant. Only you, Jennet, you were the malicious one. Without your evidence, we, your family, would have walked free that day. But you always believed you were the special one. Always the changeling. Beloved of Beelzebub, you shall return to the depths and be no more.”

  Jennet struggled, but the combined, restored power of the witches prevailed. Their chants grew louder, more insistent, echoing as if projected through countless stone halls. I clapped my hands over my ears, but nothing could drown out the sound.

  Demdike and her daughter hoisted Jennet onto the table, ignoring her struggles and the curses that spewed from her lips. James tightened the noose around her neck.

  But Jennet hadn’t finished. “I curse you. All of you. In hell and beyond…”

  Her mother and grandmother kicked away the table.

  I covered my face and turned away.

  Jennet’s strangled, final cry echoed around the room. The witches’ chants reached a crescendo and slowly died away.

  Suddenly all the lights snapped on and I had returned to my apartment. I blinked hard. Then I heard a voice. Unmistakably Rich’s.

  “And now the battle begins.”

  “Rich, is it really you?” The spell I had been under broke. All the love I had ever felt for him came flooding back. I no longer had any room in my heart for Martin. Dawn had been right about that too. He had bewitched me.

  Tears streamed down my face as my grief returned. “I’m so sorry, Rich. I never meant to betray you. I…”

  Rich moved out of the gathering shadows at the far end of the room. He smiled at me. “You never did. Not deep in your heart. That’s how I was able to find you. Now I’ve come for you. You cannot go back there. I can’t lose you again. This time, it could be forever.”

  I reached out for him, but I couldn’t move. Something held me fast.

  Rich’s expression darkened. Another presence had joined us. James emerged from the shadows.

  “Her place is with me.”

  Behind me, hot breath caressed my neck. James smiled.

  “My Alizon.” He opened his arms. I recoiled. I looked for Rich, but I couldn’t see him. A sudden, blinding headache hit me with such force I doubled over.

  James cried out. “Let her in, Laura. It must be so.”

  I realized what was happening. Alizon Device was trying to be reborn in my body. “No!”

  James’s smiling face became an ugly scowl, his voice raucous. “Let her in, Laura. Your time is done here.”

  Rich’s voice rang out. “Leave her!” I could feel him even though I couldn’t see him anymore.

  My head pounded and I sank lower, an impossible weight bearing down on me, forcing me to my knees.

  “Rich! Help me!”

  James laughed. “He cannot help you. Where you are going, he will never find you.”

  The weight forced its way into my head, pushing and squeezing my spirit out of my body. A noise like a hurricane filled my ears and almost drowned out Rich’s voice. Almost. Not quite.

  “You won’t have her. You can’t take her.”

  I could barely breathe. Alizon Device’s spirit had grown too strong. Clouds of blackness swirled in my mind. I struggled to open my eyes. Somehow, I could feel Rich’s presence. Not far away. But just out of reach.

  Then I saw him. He shone with a bright light all around him. He held out his hand.

  With every last ounce of strength, I forced myself to stand. I held out my hand. Our fingers touched for a second.

  James lunged forward. “She is mine.”

  Our contact broke. James formed a barrier between us.

  I screamed. “Let me go to him. Let me go.”

  I knew everything then. James only needed me, a blood relative, to be a host for Alizon. He’d stolen my life, and he’d stolen Dawn’s and the lives of all the others into whose bodies his hideous coven had been reborn. So we were all descendants, whether we had been aware of it or not. Even Dawn. Best friends for so many years, we had never known that we were distantly related.

  Poor Dawn had suffered the worst fate of all. James and his family had used her to trap Jenn
et so that his coven could be avenged.

  Now I could see Rich, far away in the distance, and I realized I was no longer in the apartment. No longer in my body.

  I floated, a consciousness without substance or form, caught between one world and the next. Trapped in a shadowy limbo.

  And this is where I remain. I have no concept of time and place. I don’t know how long I’ve been here or how long I must stay. I can see nothing. Hear nothing. But I am aware. And I have to hang on to hope.

  Somewhere, just out of reach, Rich is waiting.

  Aftermath

  “My Alizon, my beloved.”

  James reached out to her and she came to him. He took her hand and led her out of the living room and into the bedroom.

  He stroked her smooth skin, saw her through the eyes that had last closed on Golgotha, and sighed. To everyone else, she was blonde-haired Laura Phillips, but when he looked at her now, all he saw was the familiar long, black hair and flashing eyes. She let out a cry as he entered her and moved with him as he thrust into her.

  Their cries grew urgent as their heat rose, and moonlight flooded the apartment.

  Three o’clock. A figure moved in the shadows of the living room. The lights flashed and sizzled.

  In the walls, wires slowly melted. Silent flames crept out of the sockets. One by one, the windows closed. The curtains burned easily as the alarms failed and the room filled with smoke. Hungry flames spread. Licked the furniture. Devoured it. Built an impenetrable wall of fire.

  In the bedroom, James and Alizon, their passion spent, slept on.

  And, in the middle of the living room, a young girl laughed.

  About the Author

  Catherine Cavendish lives with a longsuffering husband in North Wales. Her home is in a building dating back to the mid-18th century, which is haunted by a friendly ghost, who announces her presence by footsteps, switching lights on and strange phenomena involving the washing machine and the TV. Cat has written a number of published novellas, short stories and novels. The Pendle Curse is her third for Samhain. When not slaving over a hot computer, she enjoys wandering around Neolithic stone circles and visiting old haunted houses.

  You can connect with her here:

  www.catherinecavendish.com

  www.facebook.com/CatherineCavendishWriter?ref=hl

  www.goodreads.com/author/show/4961171.Catherine_Cavendish

  www.twitter.com/#!/cat_cavendish

  Look for these titles by Catherine Cavendish

  Now Available:

  Linden Manor

  Saving Grace Devine

  Can the living help the dead...and at what cost?

  Saving Grace Devine

  © 2014 Catherine Cavendish

  When Alex Fletcher finds a painting of a drowned girl, she’s unnerved. When the girl in the painting opens her eyes, she is terrified. And when the girl appears to her as an apparition and begs her for help, Alex can’t refuse.

  But as she digs further into Grace’s past, she is embroiled in supernatural forces she cannot control, and a timeslip back to 1912 brings her face to face with the man who killed Grace and the demonic spirit of his long-dead mother. With such nightmarish forces stacked against her, Alex’s options are few. Somehow she must save Grace, but to do so, she must pay an unimaginable price.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Saving Grace Devine:

  My footsteps echoed as I trod the creaky polished floorboards in the empty room. I couldn’t overcome the feeling of being watched. For the second time since I had arrived on Arnsay, goosebumps rose along my arms and the little hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Don’t be ridiculous, I told myself, your imagination’s got the better of you again.

  I shook my head and made for the nearest glass cabinet. Above it, a portrait of the museum’s benefactor—Jonas Devine—gazed out at the world. I studied his face for a minute. His dark hair, flecked with gray, receded at the temples. He had a kind expression, clear brown eyes and a neatly trimmed moustache in the style of the late Victorians. My attention returned to his eyes. The artist had captured an ethereal, faraway look in them as if his subject could see something beyond what had been in the room. He was dressed in a dark suit of the period and one hand rested on his thigh, while the other held a book. I peered closer but couldn’t see any title. Maybe it was a small Bible or perhaps a novel by his favorite writer.

  I switched my gaze down to the contents of the cabinet. A pair of wire-rimmed spectacles, gloves, a pen and inkstand, all personal items from the man’s study. I moved on and came across an information board nailed to the wall. It seemed Jonas Devine had bought the house when he brought his new bride Margarita—a former music hall artist—to settle on this remote island. This had followed some unspecified need of hers to leave Edinburgh, where she worked, and where she first met Jonas. A photograph showed a dark-eyed woman dressed in Spanish style, complete with mantilla and fan. I could imagine her dancing Flamenco, flashing brown legs as she laughed and flirted with every man she saw.

  Another photo showed a slightly older Margarita with a little boy of around two—her son, Adrian. Her eyes no longer flashed and the Latin flamboyance had given way to a demure dress, well suited to a young Victorian mother. But I read defiance in her expression. I bet she could be a handful, I thought.

  I read on. Margarita had died soon after giving birth to her second son, Robert, leaving Jonas with two young boys. In 1897, he had acquired a governess—Agnes Morrison—a widow with a young daughter. They were married soon after. There was one photograph of her, with Jonas’s two sons, but no sign of her daughter. I did learn one thing about her though. Her name was Grace and she took Jonas’s surname on her mother’s marriage. Grace Devine.

  An icy breeze chilled me, and I hugged myself. I had the strongest feeling of someone standing right by my shoulder, but I had heard no one come up the stairs. I braced myself, took a deep breath and whirled around, relieved to see I was still alone. But then another sound drifted towards me. A sigh. Again I told myself to stop imagining things and carried on wandering around the rooms.

  Jonas Devine had certainly been an avid collector. Stamps, coins, butterflies, all cataloged in meticulous detail and laid out for inspection. I supposed there wasn’t much else to do if you were independently wealthy and lived on a remote Scottish island in the late nineteenth century.

  One room was devoted to his collection of stuffed birds and animals, all presented in glass cases, in an approximation of their real habitat. Goodness alone knew where he had displayed all these things when he was alive. I found them hideous and macabre, but then I’ve never been a fan of taxidermy.

  Below each case was a chest of shallow drawers. I opened one and found a collection of cameos. Much more my taste, and he had some lovely ones too. Some were carved onto coral, others onto tortoiseshell, some on ebony and some ivory. Some were the traditional profile, but most were far more intricate, and I pulled out drawer after drawer of them, all laid out under glass. The collection must have numbered hundreds, maybe thousands, and as for their value…

  In the second chest, one drawer stuck halfway and wouldn’t budge, and I could tell something was wedged inside.

  I reached in and poked around until I found the culprit. A material that felt like canvas was firmly stuck there. I pushed at it but it wouldn’t shift, so I wiggled it around and tried to grab hold of it. Eventually it gave and I pulled out something that looked like a rolled up painting.

  I unrolled it and revealed a strange picture. The bizarre subject was painted in blue-green hues, and represented either a lake or the sea, from underwater. In the foreground a girl floated. Her eyes were closed and I guessed she was around fourteen or fifteen years old. She was dressed in a white gown, decorated with a pattern of tiny flowers. Her feet were shod in black Victorian, buttoned-up boots and the gown billowed up from her ankles, exposing wh
ite stockings. Her hands floated next to her and her light brown hair flowed loose around her. With a pang, I realized the artist hadn’t depicted a living subject. This girl had drowned.

  It could almost have been a photograph, and I had the strongest urge to touch the girl and stroke her hair, but my fingers found the unmistakable texture of oil paint.

  The goosebumps arose for the third time but I ignored them, riveted by the loving attention to detail in the artist’s tragic subject. Who would paint such a picture? I searched around for a signature but couldn’t find one.

  I don’t know how long I stared. The painting troubled, repelled and fascinated me all in one go. Finally, I decided to take it down to Duncan. He could find a more suitable home for it. Then, as I started to roll it up, the girl’s eyes opened.

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  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  11821 Mason Montgomery Road Suite 4B

  Cincinnati OH 45249

  The Pendle Curse

  Copyright © 2015 by Catherine Cavendish

  ISBN: 978-1-61922-596-1

  Edited by Don D’Auria

  Cover by Scott Carpenter

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: February 2015

  www.samhainpublishing.com