“You’ve heard of possession, I expect. Where a person’s body is taken over by a spirit, usually a malevolent one.”
A memory clicked into place in Evelyn’s mind. “I read in the newspapers about a woman from Falkirk called Ellen McNulty – a perfectly normal housewife and mother who suddenly turned into a violent and bloody murderer. It was said her body had been possessed by an evil spirit.”
“Yes, I remember the story. It didn’t end well. They convicted and hanged her, I believe?”
Evelyn nodded.
“Claire’s situation is nothing like as dire, but if we are to believe there is true evil in this world, and I do, then it is highly likely such evil can infect the minds and bodies of the innocent and the vulnerable.”
“And you think this is what has happened to Claire?”
“I don’t know. I merely offer it as a possible explanation.”
“In Ellen McNulty’s case, they brought in a Roman Catholic priest who performed an exorcism. Do I need to do the same?”
“I truly don’t know, Evelyn, but it may be worth considering, at least.”
Evelyn sighed. “I never would have thought I would ever be having such a conversation about my own sister.”
“In a village like this, who would? And yet…” He shivered and moved away from the window. “There is something about this cottage that disturbs me every time I enter it. I can’t explain anything, but there is a feeling of darkness. With your permission, Evelyn, I would like to write to my cousin and ask him if he knows of any stories connected to this house that might give us a clue as to what is going on here.”
“I should be most grateful if you would. Maybe we can find out a way to stop it and rid ourselves of that evil toy for good.”
“It hasn’t turned up again?”
“Not since Claire returned.”
“That at least is something. I should tell you I went up to the crags and, as we might have expected, the toy wasn’t there.”
“Unless someone removed it.”
“Too much coincidence. No, it somehow managed to relocate itself back here. It has a link to this place.”
“Your uncle? Was he your cousin Gerald’s father?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“Did he ever live in your cousin’s cottage?”
“Not that I’m aware of. He may have stayed there from time to time.”
“Would you ask your cousin if he did and, if so, did he bring anything with him he may have left behind either in your cottage or mine?”
Matthew blinked a couple of times. “Why didn’t I think of that? I will certainly ask him.”
“Meanwhile, I have to try to restore Claire to some kind of normality.”
“Are you sure I can’t help? Maybe if I talk to her.”
“Would you? I would be so grateful.”
“Tomorrow perhaps? I don’t want to disturb her now.”
“I am quite sure tomorrow will be perfect. Around three o’clock?”
Matthew left shortly after, and Evelyn picked up her book. At least they were doing something. She prayed Matthew’s cousin would have some answers.
* * *
Claire answered Matthew’s knock in seconds. She stepped aside to let him in.
“Evelyn had to go out. She sent her apologies. She won’t be able to see you this afternoon. Something came up. I don’t know what. She didn’t tell me.”
“Nice to see you again, Claire,” Matthew removed his hat, “It’s actually you I came to see.”
“She told me you wanted to talk to me. Cup of tea?”
“Yes, please.”
“I made it ready for you. Please sit down.”
Claire poured cups of tea and handed one to Matthew. Whatever Ev thought she might achieve by this meeting, she couldn’t imagine. Still, her sister had been behaving strangely, as if she had some great secret she wasn’t prepared to share. It didn’t matter. Ev could keep her secrets. After all, Claire had her own.
“Evelyn tells me you have been seeing quite a lot of Branwell Brontë?”
Claire tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Yes. And please don’t tell me it’s impossible. I know he’s dead. But he isn’t dead in the way we know it. He lives on.”
“In the afterlife?”
“Not really.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t follow you.”
“If you don’t believe, then I can’t make you.”
“Is he here now?”
“Can you see him?”
“No.”
“Then, clearly, he is not.” Tiresome man. Claire didn’t trust him. She didn’t care whether he knew it or not.
“Claire. I sense hostility from you. Please understand, I am only trying to help. Your sister has been so worried about you, and you have both been through a traumatic series of incidents.”
“I don’t feel traumatized in the least.”
“Perhaps you should.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Don’t you feel it is a little unusual, shall we say, to talk matter-of-factly about having a relationship with a ghost?”
“Branwell isn’t a ghost.”
“Isn’t he? Then what is he?”
“He’s not a ghost.” She wasn’t about to tell Matthew something she had promised Branwell to keep between them.
“Claire, either he is alive or he is dead. He can’t be somewhere in between. You know that, don’t you?”
“Matthew, please don’t patronize me. I don’t appreciate it.”
“I assure you I am not patronizing you. I’m merely trying to understand your version of what has happened to you. You disappeared for a few days and apparently spent the time in The Garden of Bewitchment. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a toy.”
“But you know, as does my sister, it is much more than that. Much more.” Careful. She mustn’t say too much. She must remember her promise to Branwell.
“I do know it possesses some remarkable powers and it seems to be exerting quite a hold on you, apparently with Branwell’s assistance.”
“And mine. I want it too.” Now she really mustn’t go any further. Already his expression had changed. He seemed to sense he was getting somewhere. She had let her guard down. Instantly, she shut up.
“Claire, please tell me what you know.”
“There is nothing to tell. You know everything there is to know.” Why couldn’t he leave her alone? Couldn’t he tell this was hard enough for her? The constant clamor of voices in her head. Ev eyeing her so suspiciously all the time, and now Matthew. What was he even doing here?
Claire stood. “I should like you to go now, please.”
Matthew stood. “I wish you would trust me, Claire. Evelyn does.”
“Does she? I very much doubt it. She can’t decide whether you are friend or foe, but I know.”
“What do you know?”
Ah, now he looked apprehensive. Well, so he should. “I know you are not what you claim to be. There is nothing wrong with your leg. Never has been. As for any accident that damaged your spine… No, it didn’t happen either, did it, Matthew? If indeed Matthew is your real name.”
His face had turned angry now. “I don’t know where you got your so-called information, but you are wrong, Claire. So wrong. I assume Branwell has a hand in this?”
“At least you acknowledge his existence, which is more than my sister does.”
“Oh, he exists, all right, more’s the pity. He exists but not as you would have him.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He mustn’t turn things around on her like this. “You are merely using him to deflect from your own duplicity. Now, please leave.” Claire opened the door and motioned him to exit.
He gave her the briefest of nods and strode out. Rain began to fall as she closed the door on him.
A handclap started up behind her. “Well done, Claire. I am proud of you. You stood up to him perfectly. His sort only know how to bully and attack, but you wouldn’t be cowed.”
“Never, Branwell. Not while you are at my side anyway.”
“Never it is then. For I shall always be at your side.”
Claire smiled and moved closer toward him. He put out his hand to her, and she took it.
“Come, my dear, Lady Mandolyne awaits us by the lake.”
“She is really there?”
“Of course. You wanted her to be there, don’t you remember?”
“Yes, but I never thought it was possible.”
“But you saw her that other time. And so did Evelyn.”
“I thought I did. Oh, Branwell, sometimes I’m not sure what is real and what is fantasy.”
“All you need to know is, this is real. You are with me, and we are going to see Lady Mandolyne. Everything is going to be perfect.”
“Yes, Branwell. Everything is going to be perfect.”
The walls seemed to melt away until they were no longer in the cottage. Trees surrounded them, their branches gently swaying in the light breeze.
Claire walked beside Branwell. He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and patted it. Soon the trees parted, birds sang and butterflies fluttered. The heady perfume of a thousand roses filled her nose and made her head swim. She had never felt so blissful.
The crystal waters of the lake gleamed before them, and, at the water’s edge, Lady Mandolyne waited for them.
“See, my lady? I have brought Claire to see you. You will have much to talk about, I am sure.” Branwell gently disentangled Claire’s arm from his and stepped aside.
Lady Mandolyne extended a long white arm with tapering fingers toward Claire, who took a step closer. The woman’s eyes sparkled like sapphires. Her head tilted at a slight angle as she studied Claire and beckoned her to move closer.
As she did so, the woman’s eyes became brighter still, glittering and hard. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but no words were formed. Only in Claire’s mind.
I have waited for you. Now you are here, we can begin. But no one is to know of this. On pain of death.
This couldn’t be right. Lady Mandolyne should not be threatening her, and how could anyone threaten in such a soft voice?
“My lady, I—”
Lady Mandolyne put up her hand to stop her from saying more. She nodded toward Branwell, who put his arm around Claire.
“Come with us, Claire,” he said. “We have something to show you.”
His eyes looked warm and sincere, but, for the first time, Claire felt unsure in Branwell’s presence. He seemed to sense her resistance and tightened his grip on her shoulders.
“You have nothing to fear, Claire. I am with you. I will always be with you.”
And for the first time, Claire felt his words not as a promise.
But as a threat.
Chapter Twelve
Later that week, Matthew motioned for Evelyn to sit in a chair by the fire in his cottage. Urgent business had taken him to Leeds for a few days and, as Claire had refused to discuss her meeting with him, Evelyn was anxious to hear what had transpired between them. Matthew’s expression did little to raise her hopes.
“I am so sorry,” he said. “I did my best, but she wouldn’t open up to me. She won’t hear a word against Branwell and won’t admit there is anything wrong.”
“I suppose we do have to acknowledge there is an entity, or call it what you will, that goes by the name of Branwell Brontë?”
“Yes, Evelyn. I’m afraid we do. I think we also have to acknowledge he is, in some way, linked to the toy, and I do have other news.”
“From your cousin?” Evelyn took a deep breath, preparing herself for whatever might come.
“Gerald said Uncle Mortimer became quite eccentric in his later years. He spent a great deal of time in the attic, and my aunt became most concerned about his mental state. He would come down from there, tangled in weeds, twigs, and muttering vile oaths against someone or something he called Dakraska. When my aunt questioned him about it, he would fly into a rage so severe she actually feared for her life. A few minutes later he would be his old, quiet self again. She said it was as if he had been possessed by this Dakraska.”
“And it only happened when he had spent time in the attic?”
“Yes. My aunt tried padlocking the door so he couldn’t get in. She even threw away the key. He promptly went out and took an ax from the garden shed and proceeded to hack the door down. And then things turned much worse.”
“What happened?”
“That thing…Dakraska…came after her. She woke up one night to find herself staring into the vilest yellow eyes she had ever seen. The creature resembled a serpent or worm.”
It had to be. “The Todeswurm?”
“From what my cousin wrote, I think so. It reared up and opened its disgusting mouth. My aunt said it was like looking into a vast chasm, dark, stinking and foul. She screamed, and my uncle raced in from his room, brandishing a poker. He hit it, and it lashed out at him. Then it vanished, as if it had never been there. My uncle died the next day – officially from a heart attack – but my aunt swore to her dying day that the thing had scared him so much he died of fright.”
“How terrible. And you knew nothing of this?”
Matthew shook his head. “There’s one more thing. My uncle did stay with Gerald at the cottage. My cousin said he brought a toy with him, but the rest of the family weren’t in the mood for playthings. While he was staying here, though, he became friendly with one of the locals. Gerald can’t remember his name, but he does remember his father going out one rainy day with the intention of visiting his new friend, who was the tenant of your cottage. And he had The Garden of Bewitchment with him. But he brought the toy back home with him. He didn’t leave it at the cottage. We know that. Gerald can’t remember ever seeing it again. Then we only have my aunt’s recollections of the terrible effect it had on him at the end of his life.”
“But given it was only here such a short time, how can it manifest itself here again and again? Unless it infests wherever it has been and leaves something behind. Like a footprint. Only, in this case, it’s a creature. A Dakraska, or Todeswurm. Where does the name Dakraska come from anyway?”
Matthew shook his head. “I don’t know. I have heard of ancient legends of death worms, and people have described them in minute detail. We could try the library and see if they have any reference material on the subject.”
“I’ll do that,” Evelyn said. “I suppose we have to say we have made progress today, but every move forward seems to present new problems. There is still the strange man I saw.”
“I have no answers. Apart from the possible facial similarity to my uncle, and, indeed Branwell Brontë.”
* * *
Dusk had descended by the time Evelyn made her way back down the lane to her cottage. Inside, Claire hadn’t yet lit the lamps, and the gloom-filled room lay shrouded in shadows.
Evelyn set about lighting the wicks. As she did so, a warm glow began to lighten the darkness. The corners remained in shadow. Growing darker by the second.
“Claire?” she called, her anxiety level rising.
“I’m in my room, Ev. I’ll be down in a minute.”
Relief wiped away the fear. When would she ever be able to return home without worrying whether her sister would still be there?
The night felt chillier than it had been even a few moments earlier, too cold to remove her coat and hat yet. It grew colder still as her breath misted in front of her.
A lamp flickered, sputtered and went out. Then another, plunging the room into darkness.
&n
bsp; “Claire? I need you now. Please come down, with your lamp.”
Evelyn tried to relight the lamps, but the matches sparked, and then extinguished as if someone had blown on them.
Claire didn’t reply, but Evelyn heard footsteps on the stairs.
“Claire, thank goodness, I don’t know what—”
The man approached her, and, as he did so, she saw he wasn’t as tall as he seemed on those stairs.
Her heart hammering, Evelyn tried to keep her voice steady. “Who are you?”
The man smiled and came yet a step closer. It was still too dark to make out his features. He didn’t speak but held up his hand. Invisible hands pinioned her in a grip cold as ice and impossible to break. No matter how she struggled, they stayed firm and unyielding.
“Get them off me,” Evelyn yelled, more angry than scared. How dare anyone lay their hands on her? “I don’t care who or what you are. Release me. Now.”
“Oh dear, Miss Wainwright,” the man said. “I couldn’t possibly do that now, could I?”
“Why not?”
“Because I have to take you somewhere.”
“And if I don’t want to go?”
“Not your decision.”
Propelled forward, she either had to put one foot in front of the other or risk stumbling. Blackness consumed everything ahead. Aware of no doors opening, or even of the ground beneath her feet changing, she smelled fresh air and knew they were outside. Still the unnatural blackness persisted as she was pressed onward by something she could not see.
She lost track of how long they had been walking. Her arms ached from the tight grip her captors maintained. She couldn’t turn her head, had no idea if she was being held prisoner by humans, animals or machines, only that they would not release or slacken their hold, and trying to break free only resulted in more discomfort.
Still they moved on. Branches brushed her hair. In the distance, the sound of water. A waterfall perhaps. The scent of jasmine and honeysuckle floated toward her as the night became warmer. The garden. They had taken her back there, wherever it was now. She prayed as hard as she could that they weren’t taking her to the Todeswurm.
The Garden of Bewitchment Page 15
