The Haunting of Thores-Cross

by Karen Perkins

  ‘Wow!’ Mark stopped at the top of the stairs and stared at the view. ‘How can you possibly work in here? I’d be staring out the window all day!’

  I nodded. ‘It has been known, but these days I usually find it inspiring rather than distracting.’

  I led the way to the sofa and coffee table where my notebook, quill and inkpot lay.

  ‘Bloody hell, what a mess, Dave’s going to kill me!’

  Ink splotches covered the top of the wooden coffee table.

  ‘An occupational hazard of being a writer,’ Mark said and laughed.

  ‘Hmm,’ I said, horrified about the stains and concerned that I hadn’t noticed them earlier. I sat down and put my coffee mug on the table. Mark joined me. He picked up the inkpot and examined it.

  ‘You could be right, you know – about its date. If it were more ornate, I’d say it were later, but in 1700’s Yorkshire, they didn’t have time or inclination to make things pretty. Plain, useful and durable, that’s the old Yorkshire way. This really could have belonged to Jennet.’

  I glanced at my notebook. I had no doubt that it did.

  ‘What have you brought me?’ I asked.

  He put the inkpot down, grimaced, showed me the fresh stains on his fingers, then wiped them on his jeans.

  I smiled to myself, thinking of Dave. He’d have never done that – a quick dash to a sink with soap and scrubbing brush was more his style. I missed him when he was away, but another couple of days and he’d be home.

  Mark thumped three books on to the coffee table.

  ‘These are the best local histories I have. Life and Tradition in the Yorkshire Dales, A History of Nidderdale & Richard Muir’s The Yorkshire Countryside, but this is the real prize.’ He pulled an old, leather-bound book out of the bag. ‘Old Ma Ramsgill’s journal – my great-grandmother.’

  ‘Ooh, can I have a look? I love old journals!’

  ‘Aye. All the family history’s in here, and anything interesting about the neighbours too – a right gossip, she were.’

  I smiled as he passed me the book. It was filled with tiny, cramped writing. My enthusiasm faltered a little – it would take me ages to go through it all, but who knew what gems were hidden in here?

  I was aware of our knees pressed together and moved my leg away as I opened the back pages of the journal.

  ‘Oh look, a family tree!’

  ‘Oh aye, I’d forgotten about that. The Moore’s – my great-nan’s side are on the right, but this one . . .’ he leaned over and unfolded the large sheet of paper, ‘. . . is the Ramsgills.’

  I pored over it, excited.

  ‘Here, these’ll be them that were around in Jennet’s time,’ he said, pointing.

  ‘No. Here,’ I corrected, indicating the name Richard, with Thomas, Richard, Robert and Alexander below it.

  ‘How can you possibly know that, lass?’

  I shrugged, a little uncomfortable. I stared at the names, realising how strange it was that the very names I had used for the Ramsgill brothers were here, together, on the Ramsgill family tree. I shivered, then noticed something else that made my blood run cold.

  ‘Mark – do you have any cousins?’

  ‘Cousins? Nay. It’s just me – I don’t even have a brother or sister, they died when I were a nipper – meningitis.’

  ‘I’m sorry. They?’

  ‘Aye, twins. They run in the family, though you wouldn’t know it, not many seem to survive.’ He gave a small, strangled laugh.

  ‘I thought twins only ran down the female line?’

  ‘Aye, well, don’t know about that, but there’ve been a lot in the Ramsgill family.’

  I stared at the family tree, checking and subtracting dates. He was right – there were a lot of twins, and they had all died young.

  ‘At first, I thought the tree was only tracing your line,’ straight back to Richard Ramsgill, I thought but didn’t say. ‘But it isn’t. Look. Only one Ramsgill survives to bear children. And always a man – carrying on the name.’

  ‘Aye, we’ve never been lucky, us Ramsgills, but I never realised it were that bad. Let me have a look at that.’

  I watched him, feeling numb. The ruddy colour drained from his cheeks as he studied the dates. I realised our legs were touching again.

  ‘Mark, there’s something I need to show you.’ I felt nervous. I wasn’t sure if this was the right thing to do, but he needed to know.

  I picked up my notebook and found the passage, pointing to it with my finger.

  I curse the Ramsgills! All of them! I curse them to die before adulthood!’ I threw the boy on to the fire. Mary screamed and tried to grab me. I shook her off and she fell to the floor. ‘Only one may live to carry the curse to the next generation, then they will suffer their losses!’

  He glanced at me. ‘That’s just a bit of nonsense. You’re a fiction writer – a storyteller, you’ve made that up, it means nowt.’

  I thumbed through the notebook again and pointed out another passage.

  The Ramsgills were the most important family in the valley – Thomas the Forest Constable, Richard the wool merchant, Big Robert the miller and Alexander just getting his own farm established. There were three more brothers still working their father’s farm.

  ‘Mark, how old are your twins?’

  He glanced at me, jumped to his feet and backed away.

  ‘I don’t know what you think you’re doing, lass, but it ain’t funny.’ He turned and rushed downstairs. The dogs didn’t follow, but watched him go. Cassie crossed to me and pressed herself against my legs. I stroked her absentmindedly, wondering what it all meant and thinking about the expression on Mark’s face. I imagined it was very similar to the way people used to look at Jennet. But I was not Jennet.

  *

  ‘Why did you write that?’

  ‘Mark, it’s late . . .’ And it was. I was in my dressing gown, ready to go to bed, but had somehow known who was banging on the door and had opened it.

  He pushed past me and stood in the lounge.

  ‘Why did you write that?’ he asked again.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure I did, I think . . . I think it might have been Jennet.’

  ‘Bah!’ he said, crossed to the sideboard with the whisky decanter and glasses displayed on its top, poured himself a drink, downed it and refilled his glass. I narrowed my eyes at the liberty he was taking, but nodded when he waved the decanter at me. He poured a couple of fingers into another glass.

  ‘I don’t believe in all that nonsense, Emma.’

  ‘Neither do I, not really.’ That wasn’t strictly true, but I thought it the best response in the circumstances. ‘Or I didn’t anyway, but how else do you explain it?’ I took the glass from him, my fingers brushing his. ‘How did I know the names? Your family history?’

  He didn’t reply, but crossed to the window and stared out into the night. I followed and touched his shoulder.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mark, I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  His shoulder relaxed under my touch and he turned. He caught hold of my waist and pulled me closer. We stared at each other a moment, then he kissed me. I stiffened, but didn’t pull away. After a moment I returned his kiss.

  *

  I shrugged my dressing gown back on and held it tightly closed across my chest. I could not look at Mark. Why on earth had I done that?

  ‘I-I-I need to get back to Kathy.’ Mark looked at his watch and fastened his jeans. ‘She thinks I’m at the Stone House, and it closed half an hour ago.’

  I nodded, but said nothing.

  ‘Look . . . Emma . . . I-I don’t know what came over me.’

  ‘Nor me,’ I whispered, still struggling to find my voice.

  ‘Let’s just forget it happened.’

  I nodded, though how on earth could I forget cheating on Dave? I hated myself – and Mark.

  Chapter 25 – Jennet

  28t
h May 1777

  I lay in bed, sleep impossible to find, and flinched as lightning flashed.

  ‘One drunk shepherd, two drunk shepherd, three drunk shepherd,’ I counted, and thunder rolled. Three miles away.

  My babbies had died – both of them. I remembered throwing them on the fire and Mary running from the house. Lightning flashed again – I counted – still three miles.

  I rolled on to my side and swung my legs to the floor, then pushed myself up to stand. I stood for a moment, my legs trembling and, feeling dizzy, walked unsteadily to my clothing chest. Thunder crashed again.

  Downstairs and feeling a little stronger, I stared at the fireplace. The fire had gone out long before.

  I hunted around in the kitchen for some food and found a pot of cold pottage that Mary had left. I wolfed it down and paused to count. Two miles.

  A gust of wind shrieked in the chimney and a puff of ash scattered in the room.

  No!

  I found a lidded basket and cleared the grate, shovelling the ash and small bits of bone into it. My babbies could not stay in this house and become nowt but dirt.

  I pulled Pa’s boots on to my feet and shrugged into his coat, picked up the basket and opened the door. The force of the wind and rain near took my breath away, and I watched the dark valley flash into being for a second. Only one drunk shepherd now.

  I forced the door shut behind me and headed out on to the moors.

  *

  It took me an hour to reach the fairy spring – three times as long as usual – and I sank to my knees beside it.

  ‘They’re dead, Mam, my babbies are dead!’ I sobbed. ‘I cursed them, Mam, I cursed the Ramsgills, and I called up the Wild Hunt!’

  I lifted my head to the sky and screamed my grief and pain at the raging heavens. ‘And I don’t care! I don’t care if the Devil comes and claims every soul in this valley!’

  Lightning flashed again and thunder roared with it. The storm were overhead. I struggled to my feet.

  ‘Do you hear me?’ I screamed at the storm. ‘Do thy worst! Send thy hounds! Take this whole valley to Hell!’

  I picked up the basket and removed the lid, then threw the contents to fly with the wind. ‘Rest easy, my loves, rest easy on these moors – I’ll avenge thee, don’t thee fret!’

  A new noise caught my attention – a rumbling, grating. The rocking stone. The spirits of the moors had acknowledged me; they would care for my babbies.

  I turned to face the full force of the wind and raised my arms. I lifted my face and felt the power of this place. ‘I’ll avenge thee,’ I said again, my words whipped away into the dark night.

  I collapsed on to the heather, my rage spent. What had I done?

  ‘I’m sorry, Mam,’ I whispered. ‘Take good care of my babbies for me.’

  I got to my feet and started the walk home. My woollen clothes were saturated and heavy – it would take weeks to get them properly dry again – and my legs felt like lead. My whole body hurt and I thought I could feel blood dripping inside my skirts.

  I finally made it, lit a new fire, stripped, wrapped a blanket around myself and collapsed before it. I did not sleep, but lay for hours on the stone flags, staring into the flames, my mind and heart numb and still.

  Chapter 26 - Emma

  19th September 2012

  I stared at the house on the hill above me and swapped the bag of books to my other hand. I didn’t understand why I had started this stupid affair with Mark. I loved my husband. I loved Dave. I didn’t want anyone else. So why had I responded to Mark? I didn’t even find him attractive! But I was drawn to him for some reason.

  And why was I going up there now? I didn’t need to return the books today; they could wait for another time, and Dave was coming home tomorrow, so why was I trekking up the hill to see Mark?

  I reached his gate and buzzed, then jumped as Kathy’s voice said, ‘Yes?’ What was she doing here? It was her evening for counselling.

  ‘It’s Emma, returning Mark’s books.’

  The gate buzzed and I entered.

  *

  ‘Hi, Emma, how lovely to see you, would you like coffee? Or something stronger?’

  ‘Uh, coffee would be great, thank you.’ I wanted to dump the books and get out of there, but knew that would have seemed strange to Kathy. The last thing I wanted to do was socialise with Mark’s wife. ‘I can’t stay long though, I need to get back to work.’

  ‘Nonsense, you need a break – Mark says you’re always working, even when you’re walking the dogs you’re planning your next chapters! And with Dave being away again, it’ll do you good to have company for half an hour. When does he get home?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ I said, uncomfortable. I would just have to make the best of it, and to be honest, company would be nice – for a little while. Apart from Mark’s visits and Dave’s phone calls, I hadn’t seen or spoken to anyone for a week.

  ‘Come on through, pop the books down in here and I’ll put the kettle on.’

  I put the bag of books on the coffee table and followed her into the pine-laden kitchen, feeling guilty at accepting her hospitality when I was being far too . . . hospitable to her husband.

  ‘How’s the book coming on? Mark says you’re writing Jennet’s story.’

  ‘Um, yes. It’s flowing well actually. Um, where is Mark? I have a couple of questions for him about his great-grandmother’s journal.’

  ‘Emergency at the school. Pipe’s burst or something. It’s all hands on deck to clear up the mess. A nuisance, though, I’m having to miss my course so that I’m home for the twins. And they’re not even here! Milk, sugar?’

  ‘Just milk please.’

  Kathy put mugs, cafetière, jug of milk and plate of biscuits on a tray and led the way to the lounge.

  ‘Oh, you can see the water!’ I exclaimed without thinking. ‘I was wondering, what with the wall—’ I stopped, realising I was being rude, but Kathy smiled.

  ‘Yes, we needed the place to be secure, especially with two kids, but I couldn’t bear for the view to be completely hidden. Mark tells me the view from your office is spectacular – I’d love to see it sometime.’

  ‘Of course, you must pop down whenever you’re free,’ I said, acutely aware of the number of times she was saying “Mark said”.

  ‘How are the twins?’ I asked, my eyes darting to the journal I had put on the coffee table.

  ‘They’re fine. They’re both leaning towards the University of Leeds, which is a relief – couldn’t be much closer!’

  ‘That’s good. Will they stay at home?’

  ‘We’re not sure yet. It’d be quite a trek for them, but certainly cheaper; we haven’t worked the details out. They’re both searching for jobs at the moment, anything to get some cash saved up.’

  ‘Well if one of them has a green thumb, Dave and I could use a gardener—’

  ‘Really? That’s wonderful! Alex would love that – he’s a real outdoorsman, I can’t think why he’s chosen business studies!’

  ‘Oh. Right. That’s great then. How about ten pounds an hour? It’s quite a job, to be honest, we haven’t started yet, but it would be nice to have some home-grown veg and flowers – maybe some chickens too. And I’d love a herb garden: rosemary, sage, verbena and the like. Are you sure he’d be up for it?’

  ‘Absolutely! I’m impressed, you really know your herbs. Did you have a garden at your old place?’

  ‘No, not really, just a few pots.’ I was mystified. ‘I didn’t know I knew all those herbs, actually. I must have paid more attention to my research than I thought.’ I laughed, then realised I hadn’t actually done any research – I’d little more than glanced at Mark’s books, even the old journal, and had only brought them back in the hope of seeing him.

  ‘Is that for Jennet?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Yes, she would have had a herb garden – quite an extensive one. How’s the book coming on?’ sh
e asked again.

  ‘Really well,’ I replied. ‘It’s strange, normally I plan a book out – plot, characters, motivations, everything. But this one, this one’s just flowing.’

  ‘Mark said you’re using her inkpot.’

  ‘Mm. Though we don’t know it was actually hers.’

  Kathy looked at me. ‘And how are you sleeping? You look tired, are you still having nightmares?’

  I started to feel uncomfortable with all her questions. ‘No, actually, not since I started writing her story.’ I stopped. I hadn’t made that connection before.

  ‘Maybe she just wants her story known,’ Kathy said.

  It didn’t sound like a question, and I had no idea what to say in return. I decided to change the subject. ‘Have you seen the family trees in the old journal? They’re fascinating!’

  ‘Not for a long time.’ She was looking at me strangely.

  ‘In fact it’s really odd, the names I used for the Ramsgill brothers in my story are all there – as brothers! And at about the right time too.’

  Kathy put her mug on the table and stared at me. ‘Let me see,’ she said.

  A little unnerved, I opened the journal and unfolded the large sheet of paper with the Ramsgill family tree. Wordlessly, I pointed out Thomas, Richard, Robert and Alexander.

  Kathy traced the line from Richard all the way down to Mark.

  ‘An unlucky family,’ she said.

  I glanced at her, but said nothing.

  ‘Have you told her the rest? The curse?’

  We both looked up, startled. Mark had arrived home and stood in the doorway, watching us.

  ‘The curse?’ Kathy asked.

  ‘That’s not in the journal – it’s in my story,’ I said, quickly.

  ‘The story that’s mirroring history,’ Kathy said, pointing at the brothers’ names. ‘What’s the curse?’

  ‘That only one Ramsgill child survives to sire the next generation,’ I said, quietly.

  Kathy nodded and Mark threw his coat and bag on to a chair. I glanced at him; he seemed angry. ‘It’s nothing, Kathy – fiction. The brothers’ names are coincidence, they’re all traditional ones – they’re pretty obvious choices! And as for the curse, you told her about the Ramsgill curse when her and David came for dinner!’