Witchcraft

by Katie M John

  Jeremiah seriously considered just blurting out about the weird shit that had been happening at Coldstone House and the freaking creepy House of Horrors mirror trick, but he didn’t. Internally, he edited the whole thing down to, “I’ve just got a feeling about this place. I don’t know, there’s something about it.”

  “A feeling?” Fox teased. “Now who’s gone all spooky?”

  She continued teasing him as they left the corridor and headed into another of the rooms. Jeremiah went in first, the camera flashing – and then the flashes stopped.

  “No way!” he said, almost dropping his camera.

  “What is it?” Fox asked pushing past him.

  “Yeah, that is… creepy!” Fox agreed looking up at the large over mantle mirror, across which was scrawled the words, “SAVE ME!”

  Jeremiah brought the camera to his eye and fiddled with the exposure, trying to capture the writing on the glass.

  “Those kids sure have a sick sense of humour!” Fox offered by way of explanation.

  “Kids?” Jeremiah asked distractedly.

  “Well, yeah, everybody knows this place is used as a weekend party place.”

  Jeremiah didn’t respond, just sort of made a, “urgh huh” sound, but Fox didn’t get time to be pissed about him not listening, because as he pressed the button of his camera, a scream travelled down the rotting, empty corridors. It headed towards them like a barrelling bullet.

  “Go!” Jeremiah shouted, grabbing her hand and leading her through the gloom at break-neck speed.

  They fled the house with a devil at their backs, scrambled through the window, and burst out into the fresh air of the woods. Darkness had settled, making their flight towards the car a challenge more of instinct than of skill.

  “What the…” Fox asked as she threw herself into the passenger seat.

  The sound of slamming doors and the panicked roar of the engine barely drowned out their hyperventilation. It wasn’t until the wheels of the car reassuringly hit the sound of tarmac that either of them dared speak, and then they both began at once.

  “What was that?”

  “Bloody hell!”

  The fear turned to hysterical giggles and Jeremiah said, “I can’t believe we ran out of there like a pair of girls.” He glanced at Fox, “Well I ran out of there like a girl.”

  Fox would normally have challenged him over his blatant sexism, but right now, she didn’t have the spare energy.

  The ride back into the village wasn’t far but Jeremiah didn’t seem ready to be alone and he continued on through the village and out towards Coldstone House. Seeing Fox fidget, he told her he’d drop her home later. Normally, she would have told him not to bother but she didn’t fancy walking along the wooded lanes on her own; even if they were the familiar and kindly territory of the Abundance Woods. She settled back and enjoyed the luxury of the leather seats and the amazing quality of the stereo.

  “Do you think we could go for a drive?”

  Jeremiah looked at her with a puzzled smile. “Yeah, sure. Anywhere you want to go in particular?”

  Fox shook her head. “Not really – just somewhere that isn’t here for a while.”

  “Okay.” He pressed his foot to the accelerator and they cruised past the grand gated entrance to Coldstone House and left Heargton far behind.

  There was something about the scream at the asylum that had infected Fox’s soul. If she’d heard the story recounted by any of her friends, she would instantly have dismissed it as some prankster, or some trip-wired security system, but she knew what they had heard was neither of those things. And, even though the writing on the mirror had looked as if it had been scrawled by a drunken teen, she couldn’t help but connect the two things, or the unshakeable belief the voice had screamed out Jeremiah’s name.

  She looked at him. He was concentrating on the road because he knew he was pushing the speed boundaries and that the bends in the road often liked to slip away from you and then jump back out at you when you were least suspecting it. His jaw was clenched tightly so that she could see the muscle solid under the skin. She wondered if he’d also heard his name within the body of the scream. He hadn’t mentioned it, but like with her, the scream had obviously unsettled something at his core. She turned back to look at the speeding shadows of the woods and then they broke into the vast expanses of agricultural lands. The landscape undulated gently as if the Goddess were flapping out her sheets.

  It was a good while before either of them spoke and when they did, it was about something that would drown out the events back at the Rookeries.

  “Have you heard any more about Martha?” Jeremiah asked, not taking his eyes from the road.

  Fox shook her head. “No, but I got a text from Swan to say the local police had paid my mum a visit this morning.”

  Fox’s surprising response fully snapped his attention towards her.

  “Really?”

  Fox fidgeted uncomfortably in the seat, wishing she hadn’t brought it up. “Because of the whole…”

  “Pagan thing? So are you …” he coughed uncomfortably. Fox braced herself for an uncomfortable moment. “Are you and your family Pagan then?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I guess that’s how you might define us.”

  “Oh.”

  He returned his attention to the road. “Being a Pagan isn’t exactly much of an option when you’re the son of a corporate leviathan. The only nature you witness in New York is the human variety; most of that isn’t worthy of divine worship.”

  It was the first time Jeremiah had alluded to his life back home. It would have been the perfect moment for Fox to ask him about it and have the great unveiling of the real Jeremiah Chase, but she let it pass. She wasn’t sure she wanted the real Jeremiah unveiling. She’d learned enough about him via the internet and gossip magazines to know the Jeremiah Chase, next in line to the throne of Chase Enterprises, was a character she could never like. This Jeremiah, the one sitting next to her now (albeit in a car that was a totally crass display of capitalist ego) was a far more loveable boy.

  He seemed puzzled she did not jump on the chance to unpick him; he was so used to that with other people who always wanted to know exactly what his value and his social currency was. Strangely, he felt a bit niggled about her apparent disinterest, because he wanted Fox to be interested in him, and it wasn’t until this moment that he understood exactly how much he wanted it.

  “Did the police say anything?” he asked.

  Fox furrowed her forehead and she resisted the urge to snap that of course they had said something; that they hadn’t conducted their investigation in mime, but instead she waved her hand dismissively before saying, “Nothing much. They just wanted to know about the significance of all the Pagan paraphernalia.”

  “Don’t they have a profiler to do all that?”

  Fox laughed. “In Heargton?”

  “Yeah, I guess that was a pretty stupid question.”

  “We’re in the country now,” she teased. “You’re a long way from the safety of the city.”

  Jeremiah laughed nervously. She had meant it to be ironic but he had never felt as vulnerable as he did here in all the years he lived in the metropolis. Things here didn’t follow reason or human psychology. Nature seemed to have her own rules and they weren’t prepared to be nailed down. The sound of his name being screamed out in anguish by whatever-the-hell-it-was in the belly of the Rookeries, still reverberated around his stomach, unsettling him. At last, he broached the taboo, “So what do you think happened back at The Rookeries?”

  Fox took a moment, and looked out over the grey gloom of the moorland and watched how the headlights picked up the purple splashes of colour from the heather.

  “I think,” she paused, “I think our imaginations got the better of us.”

  It wasn’t the answer he had hoped she would give, but he had no choice but to nod in agreement and say with a dropped voice, “Me too.”

  12

  Jerem
iah dropped Fox off back at Meadowsweet Cottage and then headed back to Coldstone House, envious he didn’t live in a similarly cozy home. It had turned gloomy and the rain had flooded the gravel driveway, ensuring his shiny red sports car would be a nice shade of splatter-brown. This is a sign I should definitely trade it for a four-wheeler, he thought as he pulled it into the garage. The grounds of Coldstone House were poorly lit. Except for the large coach lamps swaying either side of the great doors, the rest of the grounds were dark. He slammed the car door and ducked his head down into the collar of his coat, breaking into a half-run across the drive towards the side door - the one that had once been reserved for the servants. It wasn’t locked. His aunt stuck to the tradition of the basement floor never being locked, allowing for the staff to come and go as they needed.

  He was just about to head into the dry sanctuary of the house when something caught his attention. A white shape hovered at the corner of his eye. He stopped, turned around, and looked out onto the formal lawns. It took him a moment to realise the white blurry shape was Paulina. She was spinning in a circle, with her arms extended to the falling rain. Her cotton tea-dress clung to every curve and her hair dripped with raindrops. She stopped, sensing her joy was being witnessed. She looked directly at Jeremiah and smiled before stretching out her arms and throwing back her head.

  Jeremiah found himself captivated. There was something entirely bewitching, and quite a bit sexy about the way she was handing herself over to the elements. Jeremiah had always been seduced by the idea of the wild-child. He shook his head and let out a laugh, deciding it might just be worth getting a drenching to share a moment with Paulina. He jogged across the grounds towards her. She was laughing.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, also laughing. Her joy was contagious.

  “Dancing. Want to join me?” She asked with lips bright red. Her eyeliner had run slightly in the rain causing her eyes to look smoky and dramatic – maybe a little tragic, too.

  “You’re insane!” he joked.

  “Well of course – so would you be if you were kept cooped up in that place!”

  The soaking was chilling him down to the bone and he began to understand moments like these were more full of discomfort than romance. Even so, he found his eyes caressing the curves of Paulina’s body. Since she had stood in front of him stark naked the other evening, it didn’t take much work on the part of his imagination to strip the saturated cottons from her frame.

  The clock on the stable wall struck the hour, spreading a hollow chime across the grounds. The effect on Paulina was extraordinary. As soon as she heard the sound of the bell, she became agitated. Her dancing turned to a nervous hop. She dropped her arms and looked towards the house. Her body shivered with the cold.

  “I’ve… I’ve got to get back now,” she stuttered.

  Jeremiah frowned, confused by her transformation. She folded her arms tightly around herself.

  “God, it’s cold,” she said through chattering teeth.

  Jeremiah pulled of his coat and was just about to drape it around her shoulders when he was attacked by the sound of screaming coming from the woods. He turned to discover its source. Eerily, it mirrored the scream he had heard earlier at The Rookeries. He forced his eyes wide open to try and see into the shadows of the trees. He hadn’t realised how long he had been distracted, but when he went to complete his chivalrous act, Paulina had already gone. Although the lodge house was not that far away, she had still moved at an impressive speed.

  Jeremiah was left bewildered and feeling uneasy. He waited a moment, scanning the grounds before jogging back to the house. Soaking wet, he decided against greeting his aunt and headed straight up to his room, where he stripped down to his boxers before slinging on a pair of comfy grey sweats and a white t-shirt. He patted his soppy wet jacket down, looking for his camera, and then flipped open the bottom, removing the SD card. He stuck it into his laptop to start the upload and whilst waiting, he made the trip down to the kitchen for a hot chocolate. That was another thing he really hated about the house, even going for a simple mug of hot drink felt like an expedition. He took the servants’ stairs, a quicker and colder route. The stone steps felt like gravestones under his feet and there was the definite smell of ancient stone-grown damp. Servants were clearly not considered important enough to warrant aesthetic pleasures – the walls were bare except for a couple of trophy animal heads and a few ceremonial swords that somebody had clearly thought too special to be relegated to the store houses but didn’t want on public display.

  As he neared the bottom of the winding stairs, he heard the sound of a woman singing. Thinking it must be Paulina, he straightened his t-shirt and ran a hand through his hair. He had always been a vain bastard, he thought smiling to himself. It wasn’t that he thought Paulina was conventionally attractive but he sensed the familiar uneasiness that came with being attracted to a woman who promised him something extraordinary – because “extraordinary” was the word that sprang to mind when he looked at Paulina.

  She reminded him of one of those 1940s pin-ups, what with her hair all rolled into soft waves and her bright red lipstick. In his mind, he envisioned her sat on the worktop, a cigarette in her hand as his hand ran up the length of her thigh to reveal stocking tops and suspenders. In this way, she was a dream, regardless of whether she was a distant relative or not. He put on his most charming smile as he prepared to duck under the low doorframe and shove open the door. The swollen wood scraped across the flagstone tiles and the singing stopped. Behind him, one of the little servant bells jingled, distracting him momentarily from making his grand entrance.

  By the time he half-fell into the kitchen, it was empty. He silently cursed at a possible opportunity missed.

  The kettle took forever to boil and he made a mental note to purchase a thermos flask from the hardware store tomorrow so he could make batches of supplies to sustain him through the evening. He hopped from foot to foot against the cold stone, wishing he’d had the foresight to wear socks. The kettle sat on the gas ring with a sense of nonchalance and a general attitude of being uncooperative. Eventually, the water began to boil and the kettle let out its high-pitched scream. Grabbing the oven glove, Jeremiah picked up the heavy metal kettle and flicked the whistle lid in a bid to silence its hideous complaint.

  However, the scream didn’t stop, and he became all too aware it wasn’t the kettle. The sound was so eerie he nearly dropped the steaming water. Fortunately, it fell back onto the hob with a clatter as he spun around trying to discover the source of the sound. His blood turned cold. The screaming went on until not being able to stand it any longer, Jeremiah clamped his hands over his ears and prayed for it to stop. At last, the room fell silent and he removed his hands. With shaking hands, he poured the water from the kettle and dashed towards the main staircase, unwilling to make his way through the gloomy, beast-headed route he had come.

  It felt an age until he eventually made it to his room and it took even longer for the hammering of his heart to steady and for him to get his breath back. He sat at his desk, desperately stirring his chocolate round and round in the hope that if he lost himself in some minor task, he might just reclaim his sanity. The message notification pinged on his laptop, pulling him from his state of fear.

  With half a mind, he flicked his hand over the mousepad and pulled up the latest message. It was from his Daniel. As soon as he saw the subject line, “Witchcraft in Heargton?” the message gained his full attention. He dropped the teaspoon onto the desk and scan-read the rest of the message at break-neck pace. Key words jumped out from the missive: “Vatican. Heargton. Witchcraft. Ancient rivals. Covens. Ritual killing. Know anything? Get close. Not too close! Report. Will be there as soon as commitments allow.” But the one phrase that grabbed him by the jugular and refused to leave was, “The Meadowsweet Sisters.”

  “Oh my God!” Jeremiah whispered into the darkness. For the second time that evening he felt his heart burst into a fearful flapping. An
overwhelming and completely inexplicable sense of loyalty washed over him. Fox.

  “No!” he knew exactly what his uncle’s involvement would entail; he’d heard the stories, hanging on to every gruesome and mystic detail his uncle had spun.

  Jeremiah’s hand hovered over the keyboard and he noted how it trembled. His nerves were shot. His mind was completely frayed. He tried to formulate a response but the responsibility of it felt overwhelming. If he dived straight in and offered a gushing character witness of the Meadowsweets, it was sure to raise his uncle’s suspicion, and yet if he failed to let his uncle know he was close to the middle daughter, then when his uncle found out, which of course he would, things would be even worse.

  Just as he was about to press the first of the keys, still undecided as to what he should do for the best, a low soft and seductive whisper filled his ear, “Save me! Please, save me!”

  Cold shivers scaled his body as if his nerves were the keys of a piano. He slammed shut the lid of the laptop and breathed in hard, trying to force the voice from his head.

  His jaw clenched.

  “Leave me alone!”

  His fist hit the desk as he pushed his chair back and stood, ready to face his invisible stalker. Aggression, he realised, was pointless. How could you fight a voice in the dark?

  “Please, just leave me alone,” he pleaded.

  “Only you,” the voice replied. “Only you…” she continued to repeatedly whisper in a fading retreat.

  Jeremiah walked towards the window. A flurry of snow was falling, laying an intricate lace carpet over the grounds of Coldstone House. He shivered. The house lived up to its name; it felt as if he could never quite get warm. He watched the snowflakes fall as he re-read his uncle’s e-mail over and over in his mind. He was surprised, and not a little impressed, that the murder of an ordinary schoolgirl in a sleepy English village should attract the attention of the Vatican, and in turn, his uncle. But then again, nothing had been ordinary about Martha Paisley’s death, or the other weird happenings he’d experienced since arriving in this damned village. He increasingly feared he was losing his mind; that he was now paying the price for his “experimental” years. He’d known it happen to others – the voices in the head, the paranoia, the long-lasting harm.