The Haunting of Thores-Cross

by Karen Perkins

  ‘Yes, I virtually grew up at the old sailing club here, actually.’

  ‘You built your house where the old clubhouse were.’

  ‘Yes. I loved it round here. I was very lucky to spend my childhood playing on and by the water, and couldn’t imagine anywhere better to live.’

  ‘You know, she calls this place the haunted house, don’t you? Tell them about the inkpot,’ Dave prompted.

  ‘The haunted house? I’m not surprised,’ Kathy said. ‘There’s something here. Not quite dormant; not quite finished. Waking. The dreams are only the start. Have you heard the bells yet? They say that means she walks again.’

  ‘The dreams are only the start. She walks again.’ Mark repeated his falsetto thing and I noticed Kathy grimace. My heart thumped. ‘The start of what?’ he asked. Do you think Jennet’s coming back? Or is she still here after two hundred year?’

  ‘Who’s Jennet?’ Dave asked.

  ‘Jennet Scot,’ Mark replied. ‘This were her farm, or so my nan used to tell me.’

  ‘Mark’s family comes from the village, owned most of the land at one point,’ Kathy added. ‘His dad moved away as soon as he was old enough, but his nan only moved when the Leeds Corporation bought everything up and forced everyone to go so they could flood the valley.’

  ‘Yeah, she were not impressed – tried to stop everyone drinking tap water! That didn’t last long, though.’

  ‘She sounds like quite a character,’ Dave remarked.

  ‘She were certainly that! Full of tales as well, and her favourite were Jennet. She were supposed to be a powerful witch, powerful enough to call up the Wild Hunt.’

  ‘The Wild Hunt? What’s that?’

  ‘Oh, an old superstition – it goes back to when the Vikings settled here, when this were Thores-Cross, but Nan always said it were the devil riding the moors with his Gabriel hounds, collecting souls to take back to hell.’

  ‘Charming,’ said Dave.

  ‘You’re telling me. Apparently she foretold the flooding of the valley.’

  ‘And supposedly put a curse on your ancestors – don’t forget that!’ Kathy added.

  ‘Aye, my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-granddad or summat like that.’

  ‘And now you live in her house. That’s brave.’

  ‘Oh, it’s all a load of nonsense,’ said Dave. ‘Witches and devil hunts.’

  ‘Wild hunts,’ Mark corrected. ‘And careful what you call nonsense round here, there’s plenty of folk who still believe in fairies, hobgoblins and barguests and the like.’

  ‘Barguests?’ I asked. I had visions of ghosts perched on bar stools at the Stone House.

  ‘Phantom animals – black dogs mainly. That’s where the farm gets its name, Jennet were supposed to be able to turn herself into a wolf.’

  ‘I thought it was big cats round here,’ Dave joined in again. ‘Wasn’t one supposed to have been prowling around Harrogate a few years ago?’

  ‘Aye, there’s all sorts, especially on’t moors, but it were a wolf that were supposed to have roamed in Jennet’s day.’

  ‘Did you say something about an inkpot?’ Kathy asked.

  ‘Oh yes tell them, Emma – maybe it belonged to Mark’s witch!’

  I glared at him. I wasn’t sure if he was getting in the spirit of things or taking the piss, as he often did when the conversation turned to the supernatural. I carried on anyway.

  ‘Yeah, I found it as a kid. I told you I more or less grew up at the sailing club. Well, we used to play up here a lot when the house was derelict. Did you know there’s a natural spring in the next field? We used to collect frog spawn every year. Anyway,’ I caught Dave’s eye, ‘I was climbing through the old dry stone wall out front – it was falling down already, honest! And I spotted a funny shaped stone, pulled it out and it was an inkpot! It wasn’t just hidden, it was actually built into the structure of the wall.’

  ‘Oh wow! Do you still have it? I’d love to see it.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll show you when you come to us for dinner. Not that it’s anything special to look at, just rough stoneware. I searched online and apparently the walls were built around 1780, and the way it was built in, I reckon its original, which makes it about two hundred and thirty years old.’

  ‘Maybe it was Jennet’s! Perhaps she put it there so her story could be written one day.’

  I did not want to react to that. I wasn’t going to tell them about the voice I’d heard, not when Dave and Mark were so scornful of the idea of ghosts. ‘Who knows?’ I said. ‘But I’d love to set a book up here, probably in the old village.’

  ‘Oh, yes! Mark knows all the history and has loads of books about Thruscross. Did you see the map in the hall?’

  ‘No, I didn’t notice it, I’m afraid.’

  ‘We’ll have to get you a copy as a house-warming present. It’s of the village and moors in 1851.’

  ‘Oh, I’d love to study that, and perhaps pick your brains sometime, Mark?’

  ‘No problem, especially if they’re well-oiled! Any more wine anyone?’

  *

  ‘Well that wasn’t too bad was it, Dave? Awkward at first, but they seem alright.’

  ‘Hmmph. She’s ok, but I dinnae know about him, did you hear the way he spoke to her?’

  ‘Oh, you’re just annoyed because he doesn’t like architects!’

  ‘And what about all that witch stuff?’

  ‘I know – fascinating. Who’d have thought it, a witch used to live in the haunted house!’

  ‘Did you not hear about her before?’

  ‘No, nothing. I always thought the haunting had to do with the village drowning, but maybe it’s older. Maybe they’re right, maybe she will be the plot of my Thruscross story.’

  Chapter 15 - Jennet

  30th September 1776

  Where were he? I stared at the pottage on the fire, aware that it were already overcooked, and sighed. I stood up and moved the pot off the heat. I were not hungry any more. Another meal gone to waste to add to the others I had prepared for him over the last two weeks. Two weeks. I bit back a sob. I missed Richard so much – why had he not visited? I wiped the tears from my face. Anything could have happened. Maybe he were ill? Or somebody had seen him and he were being discreet. Maybe Elizabeth suspected something, or were he just too busy?

  I walked to the door, then out into the garden, shivering in the white cotton nightgown he had given me, and tightened the thick, woollen shawl around my shoulders.

  I had been out every night, staring down the lane, hoping for a glimpse of him striding towards the house as he used to. I had seen him once or twice, but he had not seen me, and he had not come. I had watched him turn right – going home after an evening at the Gate Inn.

  I shivered again and stared over the moors, then lower down the valley towards the village. It were a full moon and the moors looked forbidding in the cold light.

  Then – a movement. My eyes darted back to the path – he were there!

  I rushed forward and he glanced up, startled. He stopped and stared at me a moment before putting his head down and turning right, his pace hurried. Going home. Again.

  My heart sank and I sobbed, then turned and dashed back into the house, my hands clasped over my mouth to stifle the sound of my despair. He were not too busy. He did not want to see me.

  I sat down heavily at the table, rested my head in my arms folded on the tabletop and let the sobs come – not caring if anyone heard me now. Not that they would – the nearest houses were too far away. I so wanted to see him, talk to him, touch him . . .

  Why did he not want to talk to me any more? We used to spend hours talking and laughing until the dawn broke and he had to leave. Did I not touch him the way he wanted? Did he not like it? Were I no good? What were wrong with me?

  *

  Once my tears had run dry, I rose and went up to bed. He did not love me. He loved Mam. He had used me to ease hi
s grief for her – his lost love. Tears flowed again as I thought of all the empty days, weeks, months ahead with no Richard. Years. How could he have made me love him, the selfish bastard!

  My anger were refreshing – a relief from all the worry, disappointment and longing that had consumed me since I had last seen him a fortnight ago. He had gotten what he wanted. He had never cared. He had seen a vulnerable woman-child he could have his way with, and he had done just that. He had taken what he wanted, then thrown me aside when he were done.

  God, I were so stupid! How could I have fallen for it? Mary Farmer had tried to warn me and we had laughed at her. I had laughed at her! In a fit of rage I pulled all the beautiful, expensive brocades off our bed. No, not our bed, not any more – only mine. I dragged my old, smelly fleece out, threw it on the mattress and crawled underneath it, sobbing once more.

  I heard a noise outside and sat up, drying my face. Richard? But there were nowt. Nobody. It were probably a fox. I lay back down feeling foolish and angry at the hope that had soaked my heart. It were no good. No matter how much I yearned for him, he were not coming. Would probably never come. I were alone again.

  I could not even talk to Mary Farmer – I were so embarrassed at the way I had laughed at her warnings, how could I admit what I had done? I wished he had never spoken to me at the clipping, never visited – even if that would have meant losing the farm. Would Peter Stockdale stop coming too? Would I have to deal with the sheep by myself? I should have done that from the beginning – at least I would have known where I were.

  Tears rolled down my face again. My cheeks were still wet when I woke the next morning.

  Chapter 16 - Jennet

  15th November 1776

  It had been almost two months, and I still had not heard from him. I cried myself to sleep every night, but things had changed. If only I could find a way to tell him my news, then he would come back. He would leave Elizabeth and be with me. Me and our child.

  I were sure of it. My courses had only been flowing a year, and were not yet reliable. When I had missed the first I had not worried, but now I had missed a second. As a cunning woman’s daughter, I knew about these things – even if I had not thought to take any precautions against it. There were no doubt at all; I had been sick every morning for weeks and my breasts hurt summat terrible. I were carrying Richard’s child. He had to talk to me now. He had to see me, and help me. Oh, I knew he had a wife and a family already, but Elizabeth had only given him one son and the rest were daughters. It were common knowledge that he were desperate for more boys – and I would give him one, followed by many more. Despite his abandonment of me, he were a good man. He had been grieving Mam too – he would stand by me, help me; this were not only our child, but Mam’s grandchild. He would not turn his back on us.

  He had only left me because of his wife, I knew that now. The hateful stares she threw my way at church or if we passed in the village proved it. She must have found out and threatened him with scandal if he did not stop seeing me. He had not stayed away out of choice. He still loved me, I knew it, he had told me he did often enough.

  That night I dressed carefully and crept outside to the fork in the lane. Ahead were the Gate Inn, to my left the lane to East Gate House – Richard’s house. I kept to the shadows, hiding in the trees – I did not want anyone but him to see me.

  I imagined his face – the delight and love I would see there, banishing my fears and nightmares. How would he react? Would he shout? Cry? Laugh? Pick me up and spin me round? Declare everlasting love? I hugged myself in delighted anticipation. I hoped he would not be too long, the October night were cold, despite my woollens.

  I caught my breath – someone were coming! I peered out from behind the tree. John Farmer and George Weaver. Damn! I stayed as still as possible, praying they would not see me. I need not have worried; they were drunk and could barely see their way home. I listened to their raucous singing until their voices faded, and breathed a sigh of relief. If John Farmer had seen me, he would tell Mary, and I did not want to have to explain to her what I were doing out here at midnight.

  I peered out from my hiding place again – were those footsteps I heard? They were, and Richard strode into view a few seconds later. I took a moment to admire him, smiling to myself. How I had missed him! Tall, with a slight stoop, greying hair and magnificent whiskers – the best in the valley. He had nearly reached me, and I checked that nobody else were in the lane, then took a deep breath and stepped out.

  ‘By heck, lass, thee scared living daylights outta me! What’s thee up to skulking in’t trees?’

  I hesitated. He were not smiling. I had a whole speech worked out, but it started with him taking me in his arms, or at least pleased to see me. But he were not even smiling.

  ‘I’m carrying thy child,’ I blurted out.

  Silence for a moment, then, ‘Thee stupid little slut!’ he shouted, and before I could react, his fist connected with my face and I were lying in the dirt.

  ‘But Richard . . .’ I gasped, unable to understand what had happened.

  ‘Don’t thee call me Richard, thee stupid little girl!’ He kicked me in the belly. I curled into a ball to protect myself and the babby, bewildered and terrified by his reaction. ‘I thought thee were a cunning woman, didn’t thee think to take herbs for this kind of thing? Chant a Damned spell or something?’

  ‘I-I-I’d only just started my courses, I didn’t think of it!’

  ‘Whore!’ He kicked me again. I felt a stabbing pain in my back and screamed in pain and fear. ‘Well, take something now and get rid of it!’ He kicked out once more, but my senses were returning and I rolled out of his way.

  ‘Damn whore!’ he said again and spat, then strode off in the direction of East Gate House.

  I stayed where I were, in the dirt, stunned, tears running down my face and unable to move. I could not believe he had hurt me – I were carrying his child, Damn him! He had called me a dirty whore and left me in the dirt! He had told me to get rid of our babby!

  I sobbed and struggled to my feet, my whole body hurting, then staggered home. I knew the truth now – he did not love me. Elizabeth had not prevented him from seeing me – he had chosen not to come. He had abandoned me at the worst time of my life and now he had rejected me again. My hands clasped my belly. He did not want this child.

  What would happen to me? He had called me ‘whore’, and everyone I knew would do the same when they found out.

  I could not be alone, unmarried, with a child – the whole village would hate me. I had to do as he said. I sobbed again, my heart breaking, but I had no choice. I could not bear and bring up a child alone, not a bastard child unwanted by its pa and shunned by the whole village.

  I reached the house and put on a pot of water, then fumbled in Mam’s remedy chest, pulling out bottles and bunches of dried herbs by the light of my single candle. I found what I wanted, then shredded leaves and pounded roots before I put the mixture into a bowl and poured on the boiling water.

  I drank it all down as soon as it were cool enough, but still burned my mouth. I did not care. I did not care about anything any more. I crumpled on to the floor, held my belly and sobbed for the life I were killing.

  Chapter 17 - Jennet

  1st December 1776

  ‘Thee ain’t been to church in a while, lass.’

  I glanced up. Mary Farmer stood at the open door. ‘Thee can’t hide away, thee knows. Folk understand thee’s had terrible time losing thy mam and pa, but enough’s enough. Thee ain’t been to church since thy pa’s sending off, there’s talk of fining thee if thee don’t go soon. Get changed and come along – it won’t be so bad.’

  I stared at her in silence a moment, then slowly got to my feet and moved away from the table. She were right. I could not put it off any longer. Mary Farmer came in and shut the door. I went upstairs, pulled off my old dirty homespun dress and reached for my Sunday best. I heard a gasp behind me. Mary Farme
r had followed me.

  ‘Jennet! Lass, what . . . what . . .’ I heard a thump as Mary Farmer fell against the wall and I pulled my dress over my head. It were a bit tight round my belly.

  ‘Lass, whatever . . . lass, thee looks . . .’

  I stared at her and she took a deep breath. ‘Who?’ she asked.

  ‘Richard Ramsgill.’ I could not meet her eyes but stared at the floor. I had not wanted to tell her, but I knew she would not give up until she got the name out of me. ‘I took red clover, raspberry, feverfew and horsetail, but it didn’t work.’

  ‘Ramsgill? But . . . but . . . that Damned bastard!’

  I still could not look at her.

  ‘Has thee told him?’

  I nodded, aware that tears were rolling down my face.

  ‘Nay need to ask how he took news.’

  I shook my head, unable to tell her he had knocked me to the ground and kicked me.

  ‘Well . . .’ I looked up. I did not think I had ever known Mary Farmer lost for words before.

  She stood up. ‘Life goes on, lass. Thee needs church more than ever now. And it’d be better to be seen there an’all. Folk are already talking about thee not going, and thee hasn’t been seen in’t village neither. Best to face these things and get them over with ‘fore thee gets any bigger. Come on, lass, thee’s not on thy own, let’s get this done.’ She offered me her arm and I took it, grateful for her kindness.

  *

  It were awful. Even though I were barely showing, they all knew. I were aware of clusters of women glancing at me and gossiping. I got through the service and stood to leave the church in relief. I walked out of the cool dark of the stone building into a bright winter’s day and paused. The village were beautiful in the sunshine, the heavy frost now all but gone.

  I grew aware of a silence around me, and Mary Farmer gripped my arm. Richard and Elizabeth Ramsgill stood on the path ahead of us, chatting to the curate and a couple more Ramsgills – Thomas’ wife Hannah and Betsy Ward, a distant cousin. Richard saw me first. He glanced at my belly, then back at my face. I took a step back at the hate etched on his features as he glowered at me. I glanced away and saw the same expression on Elizabeth’s face. So she knew. The others glanced at Richard and Elizabeth in surprise, then at me and back again. I saw realisation dawn in their faces.