Isobel

by Sheila Tibbs

  He knew Isobel could have killed him if she had wanted to, but, for now, she was playing with him, like you would play with the pieces on a chess board. He knew he was just a pawn in her game, her game where she would be queen.

  Instead of going straight home, as planned, he drove to the church for safety. He knew there that Isobel’s evil watchful eye could not reach him, harm him.

  •

  In the church, he felt himself relax. God’s love had surrounded him, wrapping him in his safety, keeping him out of harm’s way.

  At the Altar he knelt down and prayed. He decided he would spend the night in the safety of the church and made his way out to the back of the church, to the vestry. There he relived his conversation with Daisy. He relived the image of Isobel he had had in the car. 'The mirror,' he thought, 'it must be the mirror, that must be how she sees everything, knows everything. I must tell Sarah, but I must be careful, Isobel will be there. Will she know? Perhaps I should devise some sort of code? No, Sarah won’t know what I mean. Oh, God, help me….

  I know, I’ll tell her I’m tired and I will see her tomorrow that way, nothing is given away.'

  Happy with his plan, he picked up the telephone and dialled Sarah’s number.

  Back at the Manor, the phone rang. Father Mather listened to the engaged signal for a few seconds and replaced the receiver, then sighed heavily.

  Sarah ran and grabbed the phone.

  “Hello,” she gasped.

  “Hello is that Sarah?” the man’s voice asked.

  “Yes, who is this?” Sarah asked.

  Her mind buzzed with thoughts of who it may be. It sounded a bit like Father Mather, only somehow colder.

  “Why, it’s Father Mather, I just phoned to tell you I hit a dead end, Sarah, no go, nothing to report back to you,” the voice said.

  Sarah shivered, vocally it was Father Mather, but he would never have spoken in that manner.

  With her voice shaky she said, “Who is this, is this some kind of sick joke? Only it’s not funny! I know this is not Father Mather, so who the Hell is it?” she shouted down the line. A sickly laugh bellowed down the phone, sending shivers down her spine.

  “Your making a huge mistake interfering, Sarah.”

  The phone went dead. Sarah stood motionless for ages, the phone bleeping in her hand.

  That laugh, that voice, God it was horrible. What did they mean? Who was it? Sarah felt the fear rising in her stomach. She dropped the receiver and rubbed her hands violently down the leg of her jeans as though contaminated by some invisible substance. Staring at the dangling receiver, she started to slowly back away, scared that something horrible was about to climb out and attack her.

  Father Mather tried again to contact Sarah, when he heard the phone ringing, he sighed heavily. At last he could speak with her.

  When he heard her say 'hello', at first he thought he had got the wrong number. Although the voice resembled Sarah’s, he somehow knew it wasn’t, but before he could say another word, the laugh he had heard whilst driving home greeted him down the receiver. He slammed the phone down. Isobel knew more than he had thought and was now somehow intercepting his calls to the Manor.

  He suddenly remembered what Daisy had said about the father of the twins and how the Manor was rightfully his mothers and that he wanted to take the girls home. A thought came to him. Perhaps the old village records, held in the church, would shed some light on who he was.

  Taking some of the large journals from the dusty shelves, that sat at the back of the vestry, and dusting them down, Father Mather began to read.

  •

  It was daylight before Father Mather looked up from the journals, and only then to rub his tired eyes. Slowly, he closed the last journal and replaced it on the shelf with the others. He sat down heavily and sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked at the notes he had taken, nothing much.

  Sarah’s family had lived at the Manor for hundreds of years, as he already knew and his own family had also been in Canewdon, since the records began. He did, however, find it interesting that the family of the twin boys killed by the bus had also lived in the village for hundreds of years, on the father’s side, as had the butchers.

  He scouted the room. 'There must be another book, somewhere?' he thought, 'but where?' He was too tired to look any further. He laid down on the makeshift bed and slept heavily.

  •

  Sarah was worried about Father Mather and found herself telling David that he had gone to see Isobel’s real mother, and that the fostering agency had never heard of Mrs. Glover, the lady who brought Isobel to them, or of Isobel come to that. And she told him about the time she went into Isobel’s room, to get the picture of her mother, and she went on and on. David however grew angrier and angrier the more she said. Eventually he turned to her.

  “You just can’t leave it alone, can you? Sarah, I thought you had got over this stupidity, I thought you had come to your senses, but no. JUST LEAVE IT SARAH! Leave it alone, I’m warning you!” He slammed the front door behind him.

  Sarah sat there, shaking at David’s outburst. What had she done? She should have never told him and now, she felt she had just ruined what they had regained. She sat and cried.

  •

  It was early afternoon when Father Mather woke and he felt troubled. His sleep had been fitful, troubled by disturbing dreams. He knew the information he needed was here, somewhere. He again took all the journals off the shelf and sat down to re-read them.

  He opened the first book and looked up to stretch his neck. His eyes caught hold of something lying down at the back of the shelf, hidden from the half-light of the previous night; he walked over and looked. It was another book, only much smaller than the church journals he had been looking at.

  With trembling fingers, he reached to the back of the shelf to retrieve it. Somehow, from deep inside, he knew this little book held the key to his search. Fear and excitement rose within him.

  Slowly, he lifted the book down. It was a diary, the diary of Father Mather, Father Samuel Mather, dated 1688. His own ancestor.

  With renewed enthusiasm, he opened the diary. He read every word that had been written, with some with difficulty; the English language had changed so much. He turned the page and screamed.

  He stood from his chair as if he had had an electric shock. There, staring up at him, was Isobel. Only a much older Isobel than the one he knew. The pencil drawing was definitely her though, you couldn’t mistake it. He reached forward and slammed the book shut. He went straight through to the Altar and prayed. He knew he had to go back and read but he felt he needed space, fresh air.

  He walked around the graveyard and noticed graves he had never noticed before. Some dated back to the 1600's. Why had he never noticed them before?

  He took a deep breath and went back to the vestry. The book was still on the desk. He had expected, even hoped, that it would have gone, vanished.

  Taking a deep breath to calm his nerves, he opened the book at the pencil drawing, and, covering it with a piece of paper, he began to read.

  Isobel looked out of her bedroom window. She knew

  Father Mather had learnt the truth. She turned to her mirror. Her face had contorted and her eyes glowed a sickly yellow.

  “Your time has come, Father.” she spat. Her reflection laughed.

  “Your time has come.”

  Her music box began to play.

  Chapter twenty-three.

  December 21st, 1688.

  Isobel Goody, the servant of Magistrate Dawson, of the Manor house, was today found guilty of witchcraft. She was accused of casting a spell on the magistrate's children, causing them nightmares and levitation after the magistrate had given her notice from her duty as the children’s carer, following allegations she is with child herself, and unwed, making the child the spawn of Satan. The witch’s court, held in the Manor basement, unanimously found her guilty when she failed to recite the Lord’s Prayer when asked to do so and they
found no less than three Devil spots on her naked body. The failure to feel pain and to bleed on these spots, when pricked by the bodkins, proved she was indeed a witch and favoured Satan instead of The Good Lord. This also proved that the child she was carrying was indeed the spawn of Satan. Her punishment is death by burning, and the pyre is being built as I write my journal, her demise is set for Midnight tonight. God rest her soul.

  December 22nd 1688.

  God help us all.

  Never before have I experienced such evil. Isobel was dragged, tied to her stake, to the crossroads. All the villagers turned out to witness her demise, some people spitting and hitting her, cursing her to Hell. All the time she said nothing, showed no emotion or remorse. When we got to the crossroads, she spoke out loud.

  “This child is not the spawn of Satan but the spawn of your magistrate. It was he who visited me at night and took from me what he wanted. Be warned, he will be no different when I am gone.”

  The villagers screamed at her that she was lying and she was

  Evil. As they lit the pyre, she started to laugh, a laugh that froze the blood within ones veins. Her face contorted, sprouting lumps on her forehead, where some say the Devil's horns rest.

  Her lips blackened, not from the fire but from within and her eyes glowed a sickly, putrid yellow. When she opened her mouth her tongue, Oh God, her tongue, it was like that of a serpent, long, thin and black. Never before have I seen a human tongue so long. Then again she spoke, only this time it wasn’t her voice.

  “I curse thee all within the sound of my voice and thy ancestors. I curse ye all!” She said, and with that, opened her mouth so wide that her lower jaw became unhinged and a swarm of bees escaped from her mouth! Bees, in December, the month of our Lord! Then she again laughed that blood-curdling laugh. Villagers were screaming, running to escape the large swarm. Some got stung but poor Mr. Greensmith must have swallowed some, for after his death, they flew from his throat.

  We have been cursed, all of us. I believe that curse will claim us all, one by one. God help us, rest our tormented souls.

  That was the last entry Father Mather had written.

  Father Mather sat at the desk, tears silently running down his face. 'She is evil, pure evil,' he thought. 'She has returned to carry out her curse. Sarah. Oh, God, Sarah is in mortal danger, she is the descendant of Minister Dawson.'

  He jumped from his chair and left the vestry.

  Outside the church, Father Mather stopped. Was there a connection to the people who had recently died in the village?

  Were they too ancestors of the families present that day?

  “My God!” he said aloud. “Friday is the anniversary of that fateful day! It is 21st December. Perhaps…”

  'I must work quickly,' he thought and rushed back inside the church, to the vestry.

  •

  At school, Isobel stood in the playground, alone as usual, for all the children somehow feared her, although they didn’t know why. She grinned. Her eyes glowed.

  “That’s it, Father, run little rabbit run, for you shall not escape your destiny.”

  Over on the playground, a scream pierced the air, like a sword.

  “Did you see, did you?” Jessica Reed asked her friend,

  Victoria.

  “Did you see her eyes?”

  They all turned to look at Isobel, who just stared back and smiled.

  “I don’t see anything, what’s wrong with her eyes?”

  Victoria asked.

  They all turned and carried on with their games; Jessica looked over at Isobel who was still staring at her, and only Jessica saw Isobel’s face momentarily twist to a repugnant being, before changing back to Isobel, in the blink of an eye.

  On entering the classroom at the end of play, Isobel whispered to Jessica.

  “Beware what you imagine, for it may become the truth.”

  Laughing, she walked away. Jessica, turning white, fainted.

  Back at the Manor, her music box played.

  Chapter twenty-four.

  Father Mather took out his note pad from his desk drawer and opened it to a clean page. Quickly he wrote;

  Mr. Goodwin – died from a meat hook in the deep freeze.

  Reece and Ryan Thatcher – killed by an out of control bus.

  Miss Cuthbert – Heart attack (after panicking she had something important to tell me)

  Francesca Stuart – in hospital. Possible nervous breakdown.

  Tina Fitzgerald – Still being violently sick, drastic weight loss, in hospital, possible eating disorder.

  Mr. Peters – stroke.

  Matthew Peters – Drowned in the lake at the Manor house.

  Turning to the diary he had found, he looked up the names on his list. Sure enough he found the names Goodwin, Thatcher,

  Cuthbert, Stuart, and Peters, along with his own of course, and that of Sarah’s maiden name, Dawson, but no Fitzgerald. Sighing heavily, he thought his suspicions to be wrong. It didn’t make sense, they were all there, except Tina Fitzgerald, she was the one that didn’t fit the equation.

  Tapping his pen on the desk, he looked out of the window, and his breath caught in his throat. There, in the glass, was a reflection of Isobel.

  He spun round on his chair, but the room behind him was empty.

  Turning back to the window, the reflection had vanished as well, then the room filled with the vaporous sound of laughter.

  He flung his hands up to his ears to silence the sound and loudly recited the Lord’s Prayer until again the room was silent.

  Taking his handkerchief from his pocket, with shaky hands,

  Father Mather mopped his brow. Glancing back at his list, he thought that perhaps the misfortune that had fallen on Tina was separate. Maybe she had just annoyed Isobel and she'd had her revenge? Tina was, after all, a despicable child, whom most of the children in the village had had some sort of run in with, over the years.

  Her behaviour was only endorsed by her mother’s reaction when anyone complained. In that daft woman’s eyes, Tina never did wrong. It was either the other child’s fault, or else they had made the whole episode up and told lies, because they were jealous of her beloved daughter.

  Taking a deep breath to steady his shaky hand, Father

  Mather crossed Tina off his list. 'Everyone else fits.'

  The diary confirmed that their ancestors were all present at this evil woman’s slaying. That meant he, and Sarah, would possibly be next. 'I must warn her, but how?'

  Father Mather picked up the phone. He needed to warn Sarah, tell her to get out of the house, not to be alone with Isobel, no matter what. He dialled her number and listened for the connection. In seconds, the sound of ringing travelled to his ear from the hand set.

  •

  Sarah carried the washing down to the basement. She had only done this when she was alone in the Manor, ever since Isobel had turned off the lights and she had been attacked. She still believed that to be true, even though David had insisted Isobel had never left the lounge.

  She reached over the dryer and switched on the radio.

  They were playing old, sixties songs and before long, Sarah found herself singing along to the tunes. Love me tender, by Elvis, came on the radio and Sarah leaned over and turned the volume up to full, and sang as loud as she could to her favourite Elvis tune.

  Upstairs, the phone rang and rang, but the sound didn’t penetrate to the basement.

  Father Mather replaced the handset when Sarah failed to answer. He would try again later.

  •

  Mrs. Leadbetter climbed into her car. She had finished making her enquiries and no one had heard of either Isobel, or

  Mrs. Glover, the elusive social worker who had apparently left this child in Sarah and David’s care. Mumbling to her elf, Mrs.

  Leadbetter doubted that this child even existed.

  “I thought that woman to be unstable the first time I met her,” she said aloud, “now I bet she’s imagining this chi
ld, made it all up for attention.”

  She slammed her car into gear and kangaroo’d out of the car park.

  “Well, I will go and see this child for myself,” she muttered.

  Smiling to herself like a mischievous schoolgirl she continued. “A surprise visit is in order, my dear, then you can’t borrow a child from someone else. You don’t fool me lady.”

  Her mind was on meeting this young girl, if she existed, more than where she was going and she mistakenly took the turning for Stambridge instead of Canewdon.

  Driving down Stambridge road, she realised her mistake and turned left into Little Stambridge road, believing it would take her back up Brays Lane, to the main Ashingdon road, which would in turn lead her to Canewdon. She was wrong though, it led to a dead end with only a foot path in front of her. Angrily, she slammed the gears into reverse and the engine died.

  “Stupid, stupid car!” she screamed and slammed her hands hard on the steering wheel. Turning the key in the ignition the car spat and spluttered, but failed to start. She thumped the steering wheel again in anger and frustration.

  She looked at the footpath in front of her and stopped with her hands in mid air. There stood a little girl, just staring at her, motionless.

  “Why is that child not at school?” she said as she reached for the door handle and the climbed out of the car. “Some parents are just unfit, look at the poor little mite.”

  Slamming the door shut behind her, she smiled and called to the young girl. As if not hearing her, the young girl turned and started to walk back down the footpath. Mrs. Leadbetter walked after her.

  “It’s alright, my dear, I won’t hurt you!” she called, but the girl just kept on walking.

  There was a thicket in front of her and she stopped at the edge of the bushes, as if to wait for Mrs. Leadbetter to catch her up.

  When Mrs. Leadbetter was in touching distance of the little girl, the child turned to face the woman. But it wasn’t a young girl at all ... it was… a ghastly perverse being.