Tanners Dell: Darkly Disturbing Occult Horror

by Sarah England

  Linda Hedges had found unmarked, shallow children’s graves in Five Sisters Cemetery. The graves appeared to be relatively new; yet when she checked it out there were no records of any correlating births or deaths in the area.

  The information sank and sank and sank…OhmyGod… How many years? Who knew? Whose children?

  They had now reached Bridesmoor’s highest point and the wind was pummelling the bus so alarmingly it rocked and swayed. Becky stared at her reflection: the fluorescent interior of the bus served only to make the darkness outside seem even darker, with herself illuminated as if on a fairground carousel. She slid the notebook back into her bag, and as she did so, caught on the edge of her vision, a man in a black hat and coat on the back seat. How come she hadn’t noticed him? She whirled round. But there was absolutely no one there.

  Her heart thumped so hard in her chest it made the blood surge painfully through the radial and carotid pulses and she gripped the seat in front of her. What in fuck’s name was that?

  She hadn’t eaten all day and light-headedness was making her sick and faint. Inside her chest, her lungs were as tight as an asthmatic’s and she fought for breath. It was an illusion. A trick, that was all. Celeste was right, though – time was running out – she would be stopped for sure if action wasn’t taken very, very soon. There had to be someone she could trust…think, think…someone who would help and believe all this before it was too late.

  She closed her eyes and began to pray for help and guidance with all the force she could muster. The prayer came easily and fluently this time, and shortly afterwards the bus eased into top gear and began its descent.

  When she next looked out of the window there were street lights and rows of terraces, a boarded up pub and a queue of people waiting outside a chip shop. Tears stabbed at her eyelids. Lord knows she wasn’t a crier, but never had loneliness shrouded her more.

  She looked at her watch: ten minutes before the stop for the Infirmary – she’d better send Celeste that text and phone Noel. Someone else had to know what she now knew. The more people the better.

  ***

  Noel sounded harassed. “Sorry, Becks. We’ve had a lockdown. Are you alright? You’re not in Woodsend are you? Please God, tell me you’re not out there on your own?”

  She clutched the mobile, trying to keep her voice strong and steady. “No. Celeste persuaded me to visit her instead and I’m glad she did. Listen, I’ve just been to see Kristy at Laurel Lawns.”

  “Oh my God, you didn’t? How is she? What’s happened?”

  “Terrible. Shocking. Like Jack was. There’s a whole load of stuff I need to tell you urgently, Noel, and it’s really important. In fact, it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say my life’s at stake as well as…”

  “What?”

  “But before that, listen – do you remember the priest who helped me just before Christmas? Did you get his name?”

  There was a slight lull while Noel flailed around. “Err…No…oh hang on wait…yes, yes I do actually – it was Michael!”

  “And that was at St Mark’s Church, wasn’t it?”

  “I went back to thank him but no one there had heard of him; in fact the Rev was a bit snappy with me – said I must have imagined it. What’s this about your life…?”

  “Well, someone must know him. I want to get in touch with him as soon as possible for Kristy or she’s going to die. It’s a bad situation – really bad. The doctor there is blocking any chance of her getting help from the church but she’s got to have it. The thing is I saw him face to face and he looked like a nasty piece of work. Nora was out and out scared of him.”

  “What was his name? What happened to the last one?”

  “The last one got fired. Anyway, his name badge said, ‘Crispin Morrow’. I’m going to look him up on google now I’ve got data on my phone.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Five minutes from the Infirmary…”

  “Becky, tell me why you’re in danger? Is it the same thing as before?”

  “Kind of. Noel, I’m okay but I’ve read the diary that Linda Hedges kept – it was in Kristy’s locker – and there’s stuff that has to be got to the police but I don’t know who to trust. I have to show you…”

  “I’ll come to the DRI.”

  “Yes, please. Look, I’ll have to have a bite to eat or I’ll pass out, but while I’m in the canteen I’ll google this Dr Morrow – see what I can find. Then I’ll go and sit with Callum while I think what to do next. I’ll need to tell Celeste and I need to tell you because we have to do something and soon. I’ll be here all night.”

  “You’re going to be exhausted.”

  “I know but I can’t leave him. I think he knows what’s in this diary too, and I think ‘they’ know he knows, which is why he’s not getting better.”

  “Pardon? I don’t follow.”

  “I know…I need to explain it to you in person.”

  “I’m up to my neck at the minute, Becks, but you know I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “Thanks Noel. I’ll see you soon then?”

  ***

  Dr Crispin Morrow. Good grief, he should surely have retired by now!

  It looked like he’d acquired his medical degree back in 1963 and subsequently qualified to practice as a GP in 1967.

  Funny, she thought, he didn’t look as old as seventy-three. He’d seemed middle aged, sixty at the most; only his yellow hooded eyes, as leathery lidded as a chameleon’s, had indicated he might be older. For sure there had been something creepy about him, although nothing she could quite put a finger on.

  On further research it seemed there was very little about him in the public domain. He’d practiced medicine in Bridesmoor village for over forty years and still did, albeit part time. She tapped away on her iPhone while stabbing at chips and wolfing down a cheese sandwich, trying to find evidence of his psychiatric work. It seemed he’d had various staffing psychiatry positions, including one at an adolescent unit and several at private clinics. There really wasn’t much more to go on. So he was fully authorised to work as a psychiatrist and a general practitioner, then? Alas, that was all the information on him. There was no home address and no family links

  Googling his surname alone revealed nothing further. The facts were stark though – he’d been the village GP when both Bella and Tommy were committed to psychiatric care in the nineties. Had he been the one to block Bella’s referral? Her heart skipped a beat as she made the connection. Oh but to try and verify that – these people were always well protected legally and medical notes were highly confidential as she knew only too well. But that was one hell of a coincidence, was it not?

  And wouldn’t he have been the one to issue birth and death certificates in the area? What about those unmarked graves? Her hands began to shake as the new information hit her. Putting down the phone next to her plate she stared into space. OhmyGod! And when her mobile rang a second later she almost jumped clean off the chair.

  “Becky, it’s me,” said Noel. “I’ve just done a bit of digging around. Your Dr Crispin is about as popular as the bubonic plague. Worse – he specialises in adolescents and most particularly in anorexia, which is usually girls, or has been to date.”

  “Noel, he was the GP in Bridesmoor – has been for over forty years!”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “No, and it gets worse – you have to read Linda Hedges’ diary. I don’t want to be the only one who knows what’s in it. Oh God, Noel, it’s just so bad you can’t imagine.” She lowered her voice as a couple on an adjoining table had stopped talking and weren’t doing much to hide the fact they were eavesdropping. “The coincidences are glaring but unless the police get involved I can’t see what to do for the best, and to be honest I’m not confident in that direction.”

  “Why?”

  “I had a tip off. Look, Noel, our best hope is finding Alice and I think I’m going to have to just go and get her out of there myself. And we have to find M
ichael for Kristy or she’s going to die a horrible death. We’ll have to smuggle him in behind Cripsin Morrow’s back. And if I can just get Alice…”

  “I vote for the police.”

  “No. I’m scared of them, Noel. They can stop me.”

  “What? The police can stop you? Becky, I don’t get this.”

  “No, I know. Look, I’ll tell you everything tonight when you come over and then we can make a decision as to what to do.” A sudden vision of Callum lying in his side ward bed shot into her mind’s eye. “I have to go – I need to check on Callum. Anyway, it doesn’t matter what time you get here but please take care, Noel. Watch your back. I’m serious.”

  ***

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bridesmoor, November 1972

  5am and freezing. Cora speedily picked her way home through the woods. An early morning mist mingled with wood smoke had coiled around the trees and an owl hooted in the distance. Still, now at least she had a much fuller picture of what was going on in her marriage. And she owed her husband nothing.

  Since she had seen for herself exactly what Lucas and his coven got up to at Tanners Dell, and having protected him from gossip all these years, a quiet rage now rooted itself inside of her. He’d stolen her life and locked her in, and for that she would never forgive him. Pieces of the puzzle previously dismissed as coincidence or bad luck now slotted together to form a shocking and diabolical picture – one which dominated her every waking thought. Her husband was not only a Satanist but a mass murderer. And worse – she almost laughed with hysterical disbelief at this bit – some of the sworn-in coven members were senior police officers.

  And as if that wasn’t bad enough – she glanced over her shoulder into the gloom of the forest– they used dark arts that seemed to work. How all those untimely deaths and accidents made sense to her now: fear entombed the two villages like fog over a stinking swamp, and if anyone still dared to gossip it was from behind net curtains and locked doors. Women took their children to school by the hand and waited for them at the gates in nervous huddles. Not a single child played out after dark, and no one ever went for a walk down by the river or through the woods unless they had a Rottweiler, and even then they hurried back.

  Meanwhile, Lucas went to the pit each day as the newly appointed Deputy. and the men who worked under his watch were stoical and silent. The Druids Inn opposite the colliery now hosted but a handful of old men making a pint last all day; and The Highwayman entertained a few teens playing pool, with the occasional thirsty traveller dropping in. It was a ghost town with the inhabitants stuck in a time warp they could never escape.

  If she wasn’t his wife, of course, she’d be dead. Instead he had her trapped in misery and fear. With five children and no income it was always going to be tough, but there wouldn’t be a single person around here willing or even able to help – she was Lucas Dean’s wife! And even if she did try to leave he would hunt her down and haul her back for punishment. And then of course, there was Paul. She sighed. If ever there was a boy born in the mould of his father it was him.

  As she hurried along, her thoughts fired one after the other. Could she go to a solicitor with this? But what if he contacted the police, which he undoubtedly would, and she was left in an interrogation room with Ernest Scutts? What if the solicitor himself was in on it? What would the coven do to her then?

  The GP then? God no! Crispin Morrow ran his practice from the front room of a terrace on the main road, and she recoiled just thinking about him, recalling with disgust the way those yellow eyes gleamed when her children had been exposed for various inoculations, not to mention the time he’d examined her following a miscarriage: the memory, the revulsion of it - still so humiliating - made her feel sick.

  He’s one of them…

  She swallowed down the shocking thought that almost everyone in a position of power in the area could be involved. The Reverend Gordon…how could he step inside a church and preach from the pulpit about praying for people less fortunate? How could the man hand out what he claimed was the blood and the body of Christ? How could he? No wonder hardly anyone went to church here. Did they know what she knew? They couldn’t, though. People guessed, they were afraid, but they couldn’t know just what a terrible thing was happening on their own doorstep.

  So she was isolated then, with only one thing left to save her skin – the second key to that ancient cellar door. He knew she had it. He’d ransacked the house, not caring if the kids were asleep when he upturned their mattresses, rolling them out of bed onto a cold floor. Barging into the bedroom they shared he’d yanked her up by the arm and roared into her face, “You were seen, you stupid bitch. Now give me the fucking key or I’ll beat you to hide.”

  He’d left her so badly thrashed she could barely walk, stopping just short of putting her in hospital. But he wouldn’t find that key. Not ever. And she was alive because of it – because he didn’t know who she’d given it to – and because of the thin veneer of respectability she provided should anyone official come calling.

  He rarely came home these days anyway; leaving his family with just enough money to pay the bills while he spent the rest however he pleased – a new Cortina, bottles of whisky, whatever he snorted up his nose, and smart clothes.

  Carrion’s Wood was at its deepest now and Cora picked up pace towards the lane. The small terrace would be freezing when she got back, with condensation running down the windows, and as usual the kids would have to get dressed underneath the covers without washing because they’d no hot water. That she’d been left in a position like this! A nerve tightened in her jaw and inside her pockets her fists clenched around fingers numb with cold. The trip had been worth it though – a few more pieces had at last slotted into place – and she was more than justified in never having him in the house again.

  Ida! That fucking gypsy reject! Rumour had it she’d been kicked out by some Irish travellers and then ingratiated herself with the Romas. The Romany gypsies were the ones who had colourful caravans and glossy horses, who parked on the Common. The women wore bright headscarves and full skirts and the men mucked in with local work. They had always been welcome and their kids played with the local kids. Or they did until this summer when one of their girls had gone missing.

  Cries of, “Rosella!” had echoed through the woods from dawn to dusk as men, women and children, with numerous dogs in tow, had trawled through the fields and combed the woods day after day. Suspicion about the old mill had sparked arguments and a group of the men had broken in and ransacked the place. They’d found nothing but a damp old building with hazardous floor boards, but still Lucas’ name was rumoured on the air, until fights broke out and previously amiable, laid-back gypsies lay in wait for innocent men coming home from their shifts. For several weeks chaos and disturbance reigned, but then the mood suddenly changed.

  Cora thought back. In the space of a couple of days one of the gypsy women had a stillbirth, and another a miscarriage quite late on in her term. It was a rainy weekend in late July – and the warm ground had soaked up the excess water, turning the Common into a bog. Drenched and muddy, the woman who’d had the stillbirth had walked over to the woods in the early hours, dressed only in a cotton nightdress, and then hanged herself.

  After that a dark cloud of unease hung over the camp. With all the fight drained out of them they stopped looking for Rosella, and although for a while they holed up on Drovers Common discussing what to do, it wasn’t long before they decamped and moved on. A month of searching had produced nothing – it seemed as if Rosella had simply vanished into thin air – and the police had called off their investigation. One at a time, local people came over to pay their respects and offer condolences. And as the nights drew in, fear stretched into the shadows, flitting back under doorways only when the sun came up.

  At the sight of the departing merrily painted wagons, anger brewed behind closed doors once more, the gossip shifting to Lucas Dean and just what the hell went on in that old m
ill. And shortly after that came one of the worst mining accidents in modern history, and then the gossip stopped.

  Cora’s mind raced as she hurried along the path. Those gypsies, how they’d suffered – and yet if only they’d known it was they who’d brought the darkness. They’d taken that nasty bloody witch in, hadn’t they? Out of kindness, no doubt, although you’d have thought one of them at least would have sussed her out? Because it was definitely Ida who dished out the drugs and worked the hexes – he couldn’t do that sort of stuff before he took up with her. Miscarriages and premature death? Paralysis and blindness? That was her bit.

  Did you suss her? Be honest…

  She pushed down the unpalatable truth. No, she hadn’t seen Ida for what she was but nor, in fairness, had anyone else. The woman was a shapeshifting genius. She knew now alright, though. Her thoughts deepened. So when had Ida met Lucas exactly? Before or after Rosella had gone missing?

  Out of breath now, she looked up – the edge of the woods was in sight and dawn was beginning to streak the sky with fuchsia, wood smoke scenting the air. Before or after? Before or after? And did it matter? How secretive they’d been, the two of them! Since she’d been rumbled spying on them they’d moved the coven yet further underground, only meeting during the hours others slept. The thing was, when you watched a place for long enough and quietly enough, you found out what you needed to know. You saw who came and went at 3am while your children were sleeping. Which was how she’d come by information that the gypsies and the village gossips hadn’t.