The lamb had been easy prey. I lay beside the carcass and licked blood from my muzzle. It had been a while since I had eaten so well – the villagers had started to protect their flocks by setting traps outside the new walls; some of them even patrolled with guns.
I glanced up at the tree I lay under, and a shiver rippled my body. It weren’t natural: a single big oak alone in the barren moor. It were a freak of nature, and I normally avoided the place. It stank of death and were just – wrong.
I got to my feet and trotted off. I would not have approached the death tree if it hadn’t been for the promise of a meal and now I’d eaten my fill, I did not wish to linger. I headed in the direction of the village – not to cause trouble, or even to enter it, but to keep an eye on it and what they were up to. They were my enemy; I needed to know what they were doing.
The wind changed and brought a strange scent. I lifted my snout to it and sniffed deeply. I did not understand. The village normally brought smells of peat-smoke, rotten meat and human waste, but this breeze smelled clean, even fresh. A bit peaty, yes, but there were none of the disgusting elements that usually signalled the humans.
Perplexed, I carried on, speeding up a little. By the smell of things I did not need to take as much caution.
I crested the brow of the hill and stopped in surprise. The village were gone – a vast lake of water were in its place; the humans were drowned. I bared my teeth, then lifted my muzzle to the moon and howled my delight. The moors were mine.
*
I woke in a sweat. It had been ages since the last nightmare – they’d disappeared once I’d started writing Jennet’s story. Although this hadn’t been a nightmare as such, not like those early ones. Still, it had disturbed me. I reached over to Dave, but my hand met empty bedding. He may have admitted what was happening, but he couldn’t bring himself to return to our bed yet.
I sighed and put my hands to my belly as tears tickled my ears. I prayed with all my heart that these babies were mine and Dave’s and not Jennet’s, but somehow I knew the babies were the reason for the dream. I groaned when I realised that meant I’d have another four months of them.
I swung my legs out of bed and stood, then walked to the window. Why was the wolf so happy to see the reservoir? Why was it so happy that the village had drowned? I shivered, moved to put on my robe, and went to the office. I would not sleep any more tonight. I may as well get on with Jennet’s story. I wanted it finished and this waking nightmare to end.
Chapter 53 – Jennet
16th January 1778
Someone banged on the door and I dropped my scrubbing brush with a little cry. I got up from the floor I were scouring and peered through the window. I could only see the tail end of what appeared to be a ladder.
Puzzled, I walked to the door as whoever it was banged again, and jumped when my name was called, ‘Jennet? Is thee there, lass?’
Peter Stockdale! I hurried to unbar the door, then flung it open.
‘How do,’ I said. ‘What’s thee doing here?’
‘Well, that’s a fine welcome, that is, seeing as I’ve missed church to bring thee this,’ he said, lifting the ladder slightly.
‘But, but, where’d thee get it?’
‘Made it,’ he said. ‘Now, is thee gonna invite me in so we can see if it’ll reach?’
‘Oh, aye, sorry,’ I stammered, standing aside.
‘By heck, lass, thee’s done a grand job here!’ He looked around at the clean walls and the clean patch on the floor.
‘Haven’t started in there, yet,’ I said, indicating the grain store. I were trying to make this room right again first.
‘Well, I can give thee an hand with that – and turf-house an’all,’ Peter said, ‘but first, does thee want to take a gander upstairs – see what damage there is up there?’
‘Aye,’ I said. ‘That’d be grand.’
He stretched and pulled a few bits of wood away that I had not been able to reach, and propped the ladder where the staircase had been. He climbed up.
‘Stand back, lass,’ he called, and more bits of stair joined the wood on the floor.
‘Right, reckon it’s safe for thee to come up,’ he called down, and I made my way up the ladder. It were slow progress – I had to pull my skirts away before stepping on each rung – but before long I were stood upstairs again – the first time since the fire.
‘Reckon floorboards are sound, lass,’ Peter said. ‘Thee were lucky.’
I glared at him – lucky? He did not notice. I walked into my room and Peter followed. I threw open the shutters for light and looked around.
Peter seemed embarrassed to see the bed and stayed in the doorway, refusing to meet my eyes.
‘I thought thee were here to help?’ I asked, all innocence.
‘Aye, but . . .’ he gestured the room, ‘it ain’t seemly to be in here alone with thee!’
‘Nonsense,’ I said cheerfully. ‘Everything’s saturated with smoke – it needs to go outside and air. How am I gonna get it down ladder on me own?’
He nodded, but his face were still beetroot red. I stepped towards him.
‘Peter, thee’s only one bar Farmers who’s offered me any aid, and I knows thee’s an honourable man.’ He glanced up at me and finally met my eye. ‘Let’s be honest, me own reputation can’t get much worse – or is it thine thee’s fretting about?’
He laughed and shook his head.
‘Right then, will thee help me get mattress downstairs? I can wash cover, but it’ll need repacking with heather and straw.’ That were it for the soft feathers. ‘Clothes ain’t too bad — at least lid were down on’t chest — but they’ll all need washing, then room’ll need scrubbing.’
‘It’s easy enough to get mattress down.’ He had found his voice again. He picked it up, crossed to the window and heaved it out into the garden below, followed by the brocades that had covered it. I laughed.
‘See, I wouldn’t have been able to do that!’
‘Aye, reckon thee could do with a man around place!’
I glanced at him – his cheeks were flaming red again.
‘Will thee help me haul buckets of water up? If I can get this room ready, I can move back in – give Mary and John their storeroom back.’ I had been living with the Farmers since the fire, sleeping on a pile of old fleeces in a room full of them waiting to be carded and spun.
‘Aye. If thee wants, I can go pull some heather for thee an’all – both for mattress, and for turf-house roof – I’ll help thee rebuild that if thee wants.’
‘That’d be grand, Peter, I don’t know how to thank thee.’
He turned beetroot again, and I smiled.
‘There’s no rush though – I’ve no peat to put in it. No grain, neither, come to that.’ I sat on my clothing chest and put my head in my hands.
‘What am I going to do? It’s seven months before harvest – Mary and John don’t have enough spare to feed me till then. Most of my herbs are ruined too – if they’re not burnt, they’re mucky with smoke and useless, I can’t even earn me bread!’
‘Hush.’ He crossed to the chest and put a clumsy arm around my shoulders. He squatted in front of me and lifted my chin up with his fingers.
‘Will Smith has been going round village, telling everyone how badly they’ve treated thee, and it’s time to make amends. Whole village’ll each donate a couple sheaves of oats – there’ll be enough to get thee through winter.’
‘What? Why would they do that? They all hate me!’
‘No – well, aye, some do.’ My eyes dropped, and he lifted my head back up before he continued. ‘But most see things’ve gone too far. Anyroad, they’ll all need smithy at some time or other; they won’t risk angering Will.’
‘Oh, Peter!’ I threw my arms around him. He laughed and pulled back.
‘Richard Ramsgill’s promised to feed thy sheep through winter an’all.’
‘What? Richard?’
>
‘Aye. Must feel guilty for summat.’
‘Aye, well, his nephew tried to burn me house down – never mind all that other stuff.’
‘He’s treated thee bad, lass, right bad.’
I grimaced, then froze as his lips touched mine. I relaxed and held him closer as his tongue pushed against my top lip.
‘Jennet!’
We broke apart and giggled at the interruption.
‘Up here, Mary, I’ll be right down!’ I called.
Peter grinned at me, gathered an armful of clothing out of the chest and we walked to the ladder.
Chapter 54 - Jennet
29th January 1778
The fire blazed and posset bubbled, lending a sweet spiced smell to the house, and I sat at the new table Peter Stockdale had made for me. It almost felt like home again.
Admittedly, the shelves were a little bare, but I had managed to salvage a few items – stoneware and the like. Mary Farmer had done wonders to fill the gaps; raiding her own kitchen for spare items and bullying others into doing the same.
There were still a lot missing; a lot to replace, but I had made a good start.
I had been living here again for a week and whilst I still did not like leaving the house, Peter Stockdale and Matthew Hornwright, true to their word, had incorporated steps into the wall that now stretched far beyond my farm and I could easily get over it to the well and the moors beyond.
I went to the window and stared at the wall. Mam’s inkpot were there – I knew the exact spot – safe and sound. My gaze lifted and I watched the valley: sun shining on moors and glinting on the river below; hawk swooping to the catch; rabbits chasing each other in front of the house. I smiled; I had my home, and now a new friend in Peter – I had a future. And if that rabbit would run a little to the left and find my snare on its way back to its burrow, I would have a rabbit for the pot tonight.
My smile grew broader as I spied Peter hurrying up the lane. I knew he were coming here – he had visited me near every day since that first time; had made all my new furniture with his own hands and actually seemed to enjoy my company. I certainly enjoyed his.
He turned through the gate in the wall and hurried up the path to my front door. I opened the door in welcome before he reached it.
‘Has thee heard news?’ he gasped, and I realised he were out of breath. I frowned and shook my head.
‘Little Rob Ramsgill – he’s dead!’
I raised my eyebrows in surprise.
‘Fool were showing off to them mates of his at Beckfoot Bridge, walking parapet, and he fell.’
‘Drowned?’ I asked.
‘Broke his neck.’
I clapped my hands together and laughed. ‘Serves little bugger right!’
Peter stared at me in horror. ‘Jennet, did thee hear me? He’s barely more than a child and he’s broke his neck. I ken he did wrong by thee, but thee can’t be rejoicing in his death!’
‘I ruddy well can, Peter! That little bugger taunted me, raped me, and I’m sure it were him who nearly burned me house down. Thee’s Damn right I’m rejoicing in his death! I feel like celebrating; I’ve some elderberry wine of Mary’s here somewhere, would thee like a glass?’
‘Nay I ruddy well wouldn’t! I’ll not celebrate the death of a lad, no matter what he’s done!’ Then he stopped and stared at me. ‘They say thee cursed him, is it true?’
I met his eyes and stared back. ‘He cursed hissen.’
‘This is thy doing!’ He stepped back a pace. ‘He were just a lad! A bit wild, aye, but a lad – he could’ve made a good man!’
‘He would never have made a good man!’ I snapped. ‘He were cruel, ruthless and had no conscience – just like rest of Ramsgills. And he’d have grown to be worst of them! I didn’t kill him, but aye, I cursed him, and aye, I’m glad he’s dead. There’ll be nay sympathy for a dead Ramsgill in this house!’
He backed away again. ‘It’s right, what they’re saying about thee – thee’s evil! A witch! I’s been consorting with Devil – I’m as Damned as thee is!’
He turned, ran through the door and dashed back down the hill. I watched him go, then something caught my eye. I smirked – rabbit for dinner.
Chapter 55 - Emma
20th February 2013
The hammering on the door eventually got through, and I glanced up from my notebook. Who could that be? Where’s Dave? I looked at the door to the spare room, then remembered: Scotland.
I sighed, pulled my robe tighter around me, and went to answer the door. Whoever it was, they were pretty insistent; it sounded like they were kicking it down. ‘Oh God, please don’t let it be Mark,’ I said to the ceiling, took a deep breath and opened it. ‘Kathy!’ I said in surprise.
She looked me up and down. ‘It’s eleven o’clock,’ she said, then laughed, full of scorn. ‘Nearly lunchtime. Or were you expecting my husband?’
‘Er no, no, of course not.’ I was bewildered. ‘I’ve been writing since the early hours – lost track of time. What are you doing here?’
‘I think it’s time we talked, don’t you?’
I nodded and moved to one side. She strode into my home, looked around, then led the way to the kitchen. I shut the door, full of trepidation. This would not be pleasant. I took another deep breath – I seemed to be doing that a lot these days – and followed her to the kitchen.
I didn’t look at her, but went straight to the kettle, filled it and switched it on. ‘Coffee?’
‘Yes.’ No please. I got out mugs, coffee and milk. I knew I was avoiding the start of the conversation, and was aware that she knew it too. I could almost hear her smirk.
Coffee made, I turned. I couldn’t put it off any longer. I put hers in front of her, then sat.
‘You don’t have to sit so far away, I’m not going to bite.’
‘Why not?’ I asked, finally meeting her eyes. ‘I would.’
Kathy sighed. ‘I’m furious, yes, and part of me wants to throw this coffee in your face.’ I flinched. ‘But I won’t,’ she continued. ‘I’ve known there was something wrong with this place since we did up Wolf Farm and moved in.’
I sipped my coffee and nodded. ‘There’s something very wrong – it’s driving me insane. She’s driving me insane.’
‘Jennet,’ Kathy stated.
I nodded again. ‘Please believe me, Kathy. I love Dave, and Mark loves you – dearly. What happened . . . well, it was madness. It was Jennet. She made us do it somehow. She’s taking over.’
‘I know.’
I stared at her. ‘How can you be so accepting? Dave’s seen . . . well he’s seen some pretty weird shit happen to me, and he’s struggling to believe it. You’ve seen none of it.’
‘I’ve seen plenty. I’ve seen the changes in Mark – strange changes. It’s like in a certain light he has muttonchops – you know, those thick whiskers all down the side of his face, and there’s a smell sometimes – sheep and whisky.’ She shivered.
I stared at her, open mouthed. I knew Jennet had possessed me: it hadn’t occurred to me that Richard Ramsgill was here, too.
Kathy glanced up and smiled, ‘Anyway, I’ll only believe my husband has cheated on me after twenty years of marriage if it’s the only possibility left.’
I gave a small nod and stared at my coffee. I drank. It was getting cold. ‘So, you know about these things – what do we do?’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘I don’t think anybody knows about these things – not really.’
I nodded, she was probably right.
‘I’ve been doing some research,’ Kathy continued, ‘ever since I realised something – someone – was here who should be resting, and basically, all the books – the more credible ones, anyway – all say you need to give the spirits what they want. Then they’ll leave.’
‘I know, I need to finish her story,’ I said. ‘I’ve been saying that to Dave for weeks.’
‘Yes. Finish her story,�
� Kathy repeated. ‘And pray it’s enough.’
‘Why wouldn’t it be enough?’
‘She’s been taking her revenge on Ramsgills for over two hundred years, she’s got a taste for it now. She might want more than just her story known.’
I finished my coffee in silence. I hadn’t thought of that. I didn’t want to think about it.
Kathy stood and delved into her bag. ‘I’ve brought you Old Ma Ramsgill’s journal back, it might help.’
I took it, ‘Thanks.’
Kathy gripped my wrists, hard. ‘You’d better get this story told right. This is one hell of a vengeful and powerful being we’re dealing with. I’ve read that – all of it.’ She nodded at the book. ‘And I’m terrified for my family.’
I stared at her, shocked by her intensity, but just as frightened.
‘The Ramsgills are cursed – the evidence is all in there. You need to lift the curse – do what she wants and maybe she’ll spare my children. Yours too.’ She glanced at my belly. ‘If it is a Ramsgill.’
‘The story is what she wants, Kathy,’ I tried to reassure her. ‘She’s in my head when I’m writing – so much so, it’s like she’s writing it herself. It’s nearly finished. She’ll be gone soon.’
‘I hope so, Emma, I really hope so.’ She let go of my wrists and picked up her coat. ‘Don’t let me take any more of your time. I’ll let myself out. You get back to work. But eat something first, you’ve lost weight. She won’t thank you if you lose that baby – she might just make another one.’
I stared after her, staggered by that idea, then obediently opened the fridge.
Chapter 56 - Jennet
30th January 1778
‘Ay up, Jennet, how’s thee faring?’ Mary greeted me when I opened the door to her and the foggy moors afternoon.
‘Mary! Has thee heard? That little bastard Robert Ramsgill’s dead!’
The Haunting of Thores-Cross Page 20
