The Village Witch

by Davies, Neil

  She felt the presence of spirits around her, called up for her support by Aello. She felt excitement, pleasure. But most of all she felt hunger.

  4

  “There’s someone there,” said Mr. Crosby, pointing into the darkness to their left.

  “What in God’s name...?” The Professor’s voice trailed off.

  The dishevelled figure ran out of a side street with a shuffling, limping gait. But she was not alone. Strange wisps moved around her, half coalesced mist that formed into vague human-like shapes, and gradually became more solid. Female forms, wearing bloody rags for clothes, their open mouths dripping with long fangs. He had seen them before in book illustrations, online images, but never in reality. He wasn’t certain even now that he believed what he was seeing.

  Keres!

  Cravers of blood, haunting battlefields, ripping the souls from the mortally wounded. But he had never heard of them attacking before, hunting for their prey.

  He had no time to pass the information on as Christina, with a loud cry of “Aello”, reached Mr. Crosby at the rear of the group and, without hesitation, leapt onto him, roaring with animal ferocity, biting and clawing at his arms and face as he fell to the ground under her assault.

  Tim was first to react, rushing to Mr. Crosby’s aid, dragging the screaming, writhing Christina off him and throwing her across the street. The old man’s face was bloody, flesh hanging worm-like from the deep furrows clawed by her nails. His hands bled too, defensive wounds inflicted by nails and teeth.

  As he helped Mr. Crosby towards the others, the first of the Keres attacked, swooping in at him. He ducked. The creature flew past an inch from the top of his head, leaving a trail of icy cold which settled on his hair like frost.

  Susan slipped and fell to the ground, avoiding one of the creatures, then another was on her, tearing at the arm that protected her head and neck.

  The Professor stepped angrily to his daughter’s side and swung a kick at the bloody-robed form. His foot connected and the spirit fell aside before darting into the air once more and circling the Professor and Susan slightly more cautiously.

  “You’re telling me we can just hit the damn things?” shouted Tim across the street, ducking another spirit’s swoop at him.

  “As a rule, if they’re solid enough to take a bite out of you, they’re solid enough to hit,” said the Professor as he helped Susan back onto her feet. “Doesn’t always work but always worth a try.”

  Tim turned as the same Keres that had previously missed him returned to try again, this time coming in lower. He timed his punch perfectly. His knuckles made contact. The spirit tumbled away and, for a moment, drifted aimlessly like someone stunned, disoriented.

  “It’s not going to kill them, but at least it gives us a chance to defend ourselves,” said Tim.

  A spirit headed straight for Ethel, who simply stood watching it.

  “Ethel, get out of the way!” Tim shouted, running towards her.

  The old woman pulled something from her handbag. Tim staggered to a stop as he recognised the unmistakable shape of a Mauser HSc in her fist. She calmly raised the old weapon and fired at the rushing Keres.

  The translucent head split apart, icy chunks spinning away into the street.

  Before Tim could say anything to the old lady, Christina, having recovered her senses, hit him from behind with her full body-weight.

  He fell with her clawing at the back of his head, pulling clumps of hair out and gouging the skull beneath. He twisted as he fell, managing to throw her off just before he hit the ground. As he tried to get to his feet, she attacked again. Using her own momentum, he rolled her over and left her sprawled in the road.

  “Mr. Galton!” shouted Ethel, as he scrambled to his feet.

  She tossed her gun towards him.

  He almost fumbled the catch, but held on at the last moment.

  As Christina found her feet and, screaming with rage, rushed him once more, he aimed and fired, putting the 7.65 calibre bullet through her forehead and into her brain. She fell instantly, dead even as her muscles twitched with grotesque spasms.

  The Keres dissolved, fading away, leaving nothing but small ice crystals that clattered to the tarmac.

  Injured but alive, Tim and the others looked around them. The body of the wild girl still sprawled on the street, but everything else was calm.

  “They must have been tied to the girl,” said the Professor. “Once she was dead they had nothing to anchor them here.”

  Tim handed the Mauser HSc back to Ethel, who tucked it into her handbag. He was about to ask the obvious question when she saved him the trouble.

  “I took it off an SS officer back in the war. He didn’t have any more use for it.”

  “In the war?” said Tim. “But what were you...?”

  “S.O.E. Mr. Galton.” She smiled. “You’re not the only one around here with military training you know.”

  Tim shook his head, smiling. Special Operations Executive. Churchill’s secret army. Anyone who thought old people were just an annoying inconvenience would think again if they met Ethel.

  “What were those things?” Tim said, kicking a few melting ice crystals away from his feet, just in case..

  “Keres,” said the Professor. “At least I think so. Female spirits that feed on the nearly dead. Spirits of violent death, some say of disease too. You can read about them in Homer and in some versions of the tale of Pandora’s Box.”

  “Homer?” said Tim. “Pandora’s box? Are you kidding me? You’re talking Ancient Greece.”

  “Yes,” said the Professor with no trace of humour. “Which raises the question, what are they doing here in 21st Century England?”

  Tim shook his head, confused and no longer sure what to think. He looked down at the dead body of the girl. That, at least, was something he could understand.

  “Anyone know who she was?”

  “Christina Jameson,” said Mr. Crosby. “I remember her. The girl who went missing in your old house, Tim. The girl they never found.”

  “My house?” said Tim. “Then it’s not as empty as people think, obviously.”

  “Maybe it’s about time you went and looked the old place over?” said Mr. Crosby. “You are the rightful owner after all.”

  Tim said nothing more, but by common consent they all moved off hurriedly down the road, leaving the body where it lay, both Mr. Crosby and Ethel having vetoed phoning the local police. They headed for the old converted Chapel, where Tim had his temporary home, but his thoughts were fixed on his real home, his family home. The Galton House.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  1

  “Christina!”

  Katrina stopped suddenly and staggered back against Mark.

  “What is it?” asked Mark, glancing quickly around the overgrown garden of the Galton House, running wild on either side of the path they stood on.

  Katrina turned to him and for the first time in all the years he’d known her he saw real anguish in her eyes.

  “They’ve killed Christina.” She felt her legs tremble under the weight of images and sensations driving at her, both from the highly agitated spirits in the house and the psychic disturbance thrown out from the scene of the killing. Brutal images accompanied by so much hurt and confusion and anger. She could barely stand and accepted Mark’s supporting arm gratefully.

  “Who? What’s happened?” Mark looked fearfully towards the house. “Are they waiting for us in there?”

  “That Professor and his damned daughter,” snapped Katrina, the first blow of shock and despair slowly being replaced by anger. “And old man Crosby. And some old woman too. I’ve seen her walking her pathetic little dog around the village but I don’t know her name. And there’s...”

  Her voice trailed off and Mark almost thought he saw tears in her eyes, but Katrina never cried. He must have been mistaken.

  “What’s there?” he said. “Who else do you see?”

  “Tim,” she said quietly.
“Tim Galton.”

  “But isn’t he...”

  “He’s no one,” she snapped. “Just someone I used to know. I was only playing with him before.” She pushed Mark’s helping hands away and stood, a little shakily, on her own feet again. “He has an obvious connection to this house and that’s why I was with him. I needed to know whether he was a danger to us.”

  “Well, obviously he is,” said Mark.

  “Obviously,” said Katrina, flicking a small tear from her cheek before Mark could see it.

  All conversation was cut short as a dreadful wail shattered the otherwise peaceful village dusk, echoing around the buildings, down the lanes, crying across the fields. It was pregnant with grief.

  “Aello,” Katrina gasped, breathless with the physical and psychic strength of the cry. “She grieves and she’s angry.”

  “What does she want us to do?” said Mark.

  Katrina regained her composure and smiled grimly.

  “There’s no more time for subtlety. She demands we make the great sacrifice now. She demands to be once more in her physical form so she can wreak her revenge.”

  2

  Tim handed cups of tea to Ethel and Mr. Crosby. Susan was already drinking coffee and the Professor held a cup in his hands, although he stared at nothing in particular, deep in thought.

  “Everyone okay?” asked Tim as he took his own cup of tea and sat opposite the Professor on a kitchen chair he had dragged in to the living space. The walk to his temporary home had released the tension building in him. He smiled as he looked around. It was a typically British scene. Following such a traumatic incident everyone had their hot cups of tea, and one coffee. No one had asked for alcohol and, if they had, Tim would have politely refused. Years of experience in battle zones across the world had taught him that alcohol and potential danger do not mix well.

  “Fine dear,” said Ethel, sipping at her tea. “Been a long time since I’ve seen any action, but it’s like riding a bike it would seem. Soon comes back to you.”

  Mr. Crosby, battered and scarred but in surprisingly good spirits, nodded.

  “She’s a fine woman to have on your side in a crisis,” he said.

  Tim looked at the slim, wrinkled woman opposite, at the slight shake in her hand as she held her cup.

  “S.O.E.,” he said. “Second World War. That’s a long time ago.”

  Ethel glanced up from her tea and smiled.

  “I lied about my age to get in, dear. They were desperate for people fluent in other languages. Mine was French.”

  “Even so, at the very least it puts you in your mid…”

  “Mr. Galton,” said Ethel, her voice hardening, no longer sounding old or frail. “It’s not polite to query such things. I am that curious conceit of my gender, a lady of a certain age. Let’s leave it at that shall we?”

  Tim hesitated and then smiled. Ethel Barlow was not a woman to argue with lightly, that was obvious, and she had already proved her worth in action. As Mr. Crosby said, a fine woman to have on your side in a crisis.

  “How about you, Miss Hall,” he said, silently accepting defeat and turning to the pale, ruffled, bruised woman who nursed her coffee in cupped hands. “You’ve been through more than any of us.”

  She looked up at him and Tim could see a trace of the animosity she felt towards him still there, but it was a softer and sadder look than he had faced before.

  “I’m okay Mr. Galton.” She hesitated and then continued. “I’ll concede that, perhaps, not all my suspicions about you were correct, but I still have some doubts.”

  “Well, I appreciate you being honest about it,” said Tim. “What are these doubts? Maybe I can convince you that I’m on your side.”

  “Your relationship with that bitch from the school worries me,” said Susan bluntly. “I’ve seen you arm-in-arm with her.”

  For a moment Tim said nothing. His relationship with Katrina had been on his mind too. The claims that she was the next Village Witch had surprised him. He wasn’t quite sure he bought into the witch thing, despite the creatures that had attacked them. He’d seen strange things in the jungles and deserts of the world and was willing to allow the existence of unknown beasts, however odd. But to believe in witchcraft as a real thing, and that a woman from his past, the girl he had wanted so badly when he was young, had dreamed of and fantasised about, was the witch of all witches... it was hard to accept.

  “Katrina was a childhood crush, no, more than that. I loved her. When I left here, knowing I wouldn’t see her again was one of the hardest things I had to fight against.”

  “Then you came back,” said Susan, her tone slightly softer.

  “Yes, I came back. She turned up on my doorstep and all those emotions, those dreams, came back to me. So yes, you saw me arm-in-arm with her. I had hoped, perhaps even planned, to take things much further. I saw my chance to get what I’d always wanted.”

  “You fell in love with her again,” said Ethel quietly.

  “I’m not sure I ever stopped loving her.” Tim took a deep breath to calm his fluttering stomach. This was harder to say than he had expected. “And now you tell me that she’s some kind of witch. That she’s an evil person. Do you have any idea how hard that is to accept?”

  Susan said nothing. She sipped at her coffee and wiped a small tear from the corner of her eye. She found she empathised with the pain this man was feeling. More than that. In some strange way she took part of that pain upon herself, a connection beyond any mere sympathetic understanding.

  “I came back here because, after the army, I had nowhere else I wanted to go,” said Tim. “I thought I’d come back for a short while, see the old place, maybe catch up with one or two old friends. I had no intention of getting involved in anything to do with the village. I certainly had no idea I’d end up fighting strange creatures and witches and god knows what else!”

  He paused, looking round the others in the room, feeling a little self-conscious at their rapt attention.

  “But I am involved. And, whether you believe it or not Miss Hall, I’m involved on your side.”

  A slight blush blossomed on Susan’s face.

  “This is my home,” said Tim. “If someone’s trying to destroy it, whether it’s Katrina or anyone else, I’m going to do everything I can to stop them. I don’t really care whether you have your suspicions, your doubts, about me. I’d prefer not to have the added complication of having to keep looking over my shoulder to make sure you’re not about to murder me, but I’ll deal with it.”

  Susan smiled for the first time since she’d reached the old converted chapel.

  “I’ve no intention of murdering you. I do believe you’re on our side, but it won’t be easy for you if you come face to face with that woman.”

  “No,” said Tim, his mind flashing, thoughts speeding through, assessing, considering. “It won’t be easy. None of this is going to be easy with just the five of us.” He turned to Ethel and Mr. Crosby. “Anyone else in the village we can count on?”

  Mr. Crosby shook his head. “I doubt it. There are plenty of people not involved with Katrina Bayley and her followers, but I don’t think any of them are brave enough to stand up to her.”

  “Didn’t think so,” said Tim, nodding.

  Susan turned to look at her father who still stared into nothingness. She doubted he had even heard any of the conversation in the room.

  “Dad, you okay?”

  Professor Hall focussed his eyes on his daughter and smiled.

  “Yes, fine. Just been thinking. Something that poor girl shouted as she attacked us. It’s been going round in my head. I knew it was familiar, but it’s taken a while for me to place it. All this excitement getting in the way of thinking.”

  “What did she shout?” asked Mr. Crosby, leaning forward in his chair.

  “Aello,” said the Professor. “It’s a name. An old name. Not from Homer this time, at least not the name, although the creature itself is there. That’s why it’s
taken me some time you see. A bit more obscure than Homer, to the layman at least. I’m pretty certain it was the Hesiod Theogony, or maybe Appolodorus, perhaps even both?”

  “Dad,” said Susan. “No one cares where it came from. Just tell us what it means.”

  “It doesn’t mean anything,” said the Professor. “It’s a name. Aello. One of the Ancient Greek Harpies, or Harpyiai. One of the few named in any documentation.”

  “Harpies?” said Tim. “You mean like in Jason and the Argonauts?”

  The Professor smiled.

  “Yes, I suppose. Although I’m not saying she looks like those cinematic creations. The Harpies were the hounds of Zeus, snatching people away at Zeus’s whim. Often shown as women with wings in art from the time.”

  “Like the things that attacked us tonight?” said Mr. Crosby.

  “Not quite. No. Like I said before, they were Keres I’m certain. No. The Harpies were much worse, much more vicious.”

  “But Ancient Greece again,” said Susan.

  “Greek Mythology,” said the Professor. “The Harpies, in some stories at least, finished up, geographically, in Ancient Crete.”

  Susan sighed. “My point is, what are creatures from Greek Mythology doing flying around Byre?”

  “I might be able to answer that,” said Tim. “My parents told me I had ancestors who travelled the world as keen amateur archaeologists. Sometimes they brought back souvenirs, and not always the kind that Customs these days would be happy to pass. This was before it became fashionable to steal other culture’s antiquities, but I guess you could say my ancestors were ahead of their time.”

  “Did you inherit their interest?” said the Professor, leaning forward in concentration.

  “No, not my thing. Far too intellectual. But I did like some of the things my dad showed me. Things we still had in the family from all that time ago. Scrolls from Egypt, pots and jars from everywhere, including Crete and Greece. Given how my parents’ house seems to be involved in this in some way, and allowing for the existence of the creatures you’re talking about Professor, isn’t it a fair bet that they got here because somewhere down the line one of my ancestors brought them here?”