The Whitby Witches 3: The Whitby Child

by Robin Jarvis

  "Jen!" Ben called. "Stop!"

  The girl looked round and saw that Miss Boston was tapping her hand upon the bedclothes and nodding her head frantically.

  "Which?" asked Jennet. "The last one or the one about angels?"

  "No," said Ben as Aunt Alice shook her head, "it was that scrappy one she wanted."

  Jennet eased the volume from the shelf but the binding had deteriorated and several loose pages fluttered to the floor. Picking them up, she handed the untidy sheaf to the old lady, who spread her arthritic fingers over the cover and gave a grateful sigh.

  Ben peered at the jumble of yellowing pages sandwiched between the two faded covers and pulled a puzzled expression.

  "It looks as though it's been ripped apart and thrown back together," he said. "Is it an old diary, Aunt Alice? There's handwriting on that bit, and a funny drawing there."

  "Ooh, Doctor Adams," Edith's fluting voice twittered towards them from the kitchen. "I'll make sure she doesn't exert herself again. Do you know it's just like when I was looking after Mother—quite nice to be caring for the sick again. I'll see you to the door, Doctor. Thank you so much for coming over. Yes, I'll see to it she takes the new medication."

  Miss Boston and the children listened as the doctor and Edith left the kitchen and padded down the hall. Quickly Miss Boston lifted her hand and Jennet, catching her intention, picked up the book and hid it beneath the bedclothes by the old lady's side.

  "Here we are, then," said Miss Wethers as she returned to the sickroom. "Doctor Adams is just off, Alice, and you children should let her get some rest. Come on—out you go. Oh Ben, your trousers! They've made a horrid wet patch on the coverlet. Go and change at once."

  The children kissed Aunt Alice goodnight, but as they filed through the doorway Ben glanced back at her and to his delight she gave him an encouraging wink.

  Briskly, the doctor bade his patient farewell then Miss Wethers showed him out and flitted back to the invalid.

  "I imagine you feel much better now," she cooed, bending at the knees as if she were talking to a three-year-old. "Isn't he marvellous with his little black bag? So solid and reassuring, don't you think? Now then, it's medicine time for you before bobos."

  Vanishing into the kitchen for a moment to fetch a glass of water, Miss Wethers returned carrying two tablets between her fingers.

  "The doctor's given you some new pills. He says they'll keep you a little bit more settled, stop you getting fractious and fretting so much. 'The carer's friend' he calls them, isn't that lovely? Now open up, Alice."

  The old lady gave her attendant demon a mutinous glare then was forced to open her mouth when Edith pinched her nose.

  "Be a good girl," admonished Miss Wethers. "We must take our tablets, mustn't we? There, now have some water to wash them down. Mother was just the same, she hated taking the medicine but I knew what was best for her. All done! Who's clever then? I'll leave you to doze while I make the children's tea, then I'll turn the light off."

  Edith tiptoed from the sickroom and gently closed the door behind her.

  Miss Boston gave a contemptuous grunt, then she spat the tablets from her mouth and laboriously hid them in the pocket of her bedjacket.

  When this was done, she slowly drew the tattered volume from under the blankets and held her breath. Here it was, the most precious thing in a witch's possession—the Book of Shadows.

  Patricia Gunning had entrusted it to Miss Boston with her dying breath, but since her return to Whitby she had not given it a single thought.

  Now the old lady's hand trembled with excitement. If this really did hold the key to her recovery then Patricia had been more powerful than she had ever suspected.

  Holding her breath, she felt a thrill of expectancy and wonder tingle throughout her entire being. Carefully, she lifted the cover and turned the first page.

  Written in silver ink, in a familiar, ostentatious style that took her back to her lecturing days at the ladies' college, she read the following inscription:

  I, Patricia Eliander Gunning, do commit to these pages all the lore I have learned in my lifelong study of the Craft. I pray that the powers of light keep it from those who pursue the dark road, for contained herein is much secret and sacred knowledge. In the name of the great Mother Goddess I devote this work and charge you who read it to bring neither hurt nor harm to any other.

  Blessed be.

  Miss Boston smiled sadly as she remembered her former pupil. The voice of that exuberant young girl seemed to call to her from the distant past and the old lady hesitated before she studied the Book of Shadows in greater detail. She had no idea what it would reveal to her—Patricia had been one of the most powerful and respected white witches in the country.

  With her heart fluttering in her breast, she began to read.

  ***

  Later that night, red and glowing after a hot bath, Ben wrestled into his pyjamas. With the main light still switched on, he crawled into bed and stared thoughtfully at the sloping ceiling.

  "What was bothering Nelda?" he drowsily murmured to himself. "And why did she want to talk to that awful Parry?" The boy yawned, then rolled over and reached across to the chest of drawers where he picked up a small piece of stone.

  The ammonite that Ben had found in the first week of his time in Whitby had become one of his favourite possessions. To him, it symbolised a steady continuity, a permanent thing in a world that was always changing. Some nights, when he felt especially vulnerable or if he had rowed with his sister, he would go to sleep with the fossil grasped tightly in his hand. Tonight was one of those occasions. Nelda's curt dismissal was troubling him and Ben traced the snake-like, spiral pattern of the ammonite with his fingers to reassure himself.

  "Ben," Jennet's voice suddenly hissed from behind the door, "are you asleep?"

  Before the boy could answer she was in the room and Ben noticed with some surprise that she was carrying a photograph album. He recognised it at once but said nothing, for an odd look was spread over Jennet's face.

  "Mind if I sit down for a while?" she asked, already sitting upon the end of the bed.

  There was a pause as Ben waited to hear what she wanted but the girl seemed reluctant to mention the album and chattered instead about Miss Boston.

  "She was very keen to get that book," Jennet remarked without any real enthusiasm. "It's been on that shelf for months now—why the sudden interest?"

  The boy made no answer; they both knew that Jennet had not come to talk about Aunt Alice.

  Jennet gave a nervous cough. "I was leafing through this," she mumbled, indicating the album that was still clutched tightly in her hands. "I just wanted to see them—you know."

  A deep furrow appeared in Ben's forehead as he tried to guess what his sister was up to. She never let him see the family photographs—why was she doing it now?

  Jennet hesitated before she opened the album, then a peculiar smile fixed itself to her face as she turned the first page.

  "There's Mum and Dad when they were married, there's the honeymoon, me when I was a baby—my first birthday..." Her voice began to tremble and the girl lowered her head so that her long hair curtained off her face and Ben knew that she had started to cry.

  Patiently, he waited until she had recovered before saying anything. Even after all this time the grief could take you by surprise; he had experienced it himself and there was nothing to be done except let it pass.

  Presently his sister composed herself and swept the hair over her shoulders again. Her eyes were redder than before but she continued as though nothing had happened.

  "And there you are," she uttered in a husky voice. "Do you remember that holiday? How young we both were!"

  Throughout all this, Jennet had kept the album close to herself, hugging and guarding it jealously—hardly letting Ben have so much as a glimpse. Not once did she look at him; all her attention was focused upon the photographs, but now she shifted her gaze to her brother.

  A mom
ent passed as she stared. It was obvious that she was troubled by something and did not know how to tell him. This in itself was unusual, for Jennet had always been the direct one who made her views and opinions known.

  "It's good to have the pictures," she eventually said. "It's nice to be able to see them, isn't it?"

  Ben wanted to say that he rarely saw the photographs. When he did it was only because he had sneaked into Jennet's room whilst she was out. But he kept silent and waited for her to continue.

  "Sometimes," she said, "sometimes I get confused—do you know what I mean? Their faces—Mum and Dad's—they sort of fade and get jumbled in my head. I forget what they looked like." The girl shuddered at this admission and cast her eyes down as though she had betrayed her dead parents.

  "That's... that's why I have to open the album now and then," she breathed, "just to reassure myself and remember."

  "I know that," Ben finally managed to say. "I like to see them too, but you hide the album from me."

  Jennet snapped the pages shut and reared her head, determined to ask what had been burning there for many months.

  "I want you to tell me," she began. "I want to know and this will be the only time I'll ever ask." She took a deep breath. It was difficult for her to broach this subject; she had always hated her brother's second sight, because it made him different and had only caused them trouble in the past. But this was important and the girl had to know for certain.

  "Tell me," she said again, "do you still see them? Do you see the ghosts of Mum and Dad?"

  There, she had said it and the relief she felt once the rush of words had tumbled out was immense.

  Ben could only gape at her. She never willingly talked about his "visitors" as he called them, and the question took him by complete surprise.

  "Well?" she demanded. "Do you? Do they still come to you at night like they used to? Are they concerned about us? Have they changed in any way? Do they look the same as on the day they died—the same as they did in these photos?"

  Jennet was shivering now and her eyes shone with a wild and frantic light that alarmed and bewildered her brother.

  "I... I don't know," he stammered.

  "What do you mean?" she snapped back. "Have you or haven't you? Do they still care about us? Do they care about what happens? What about me—do they ever mention me? I must know! It's important—tell me!"

  "No!" the boy yelled. "No, I haven't seen them. The last time was that night Aunt Alice had a séance when we first arrived and I saw Mum."

  "But that was ages ago!" she shouted back. "Are you trying to tell me they haven't been back since? I don't believe you! Mum and Dad loved us—they loved me! They'd want us to know they still cared. You're a liar! You have seen them! You have!"

  Tears streamed down her face but her heart was filled with anger. Fiercely, Jennet seized Ben by the shoulders and shook him violently.

  "You're a foul, spoilt monster!" she bawled. "Is it because I won't let you see the album? Is that why you're telling me these lies? I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! I wish you'd died with them!"

  "Jen!" her brother wailed. "You're hurting! Stop it!"

  "What's all that noise?" called Miss Wethers from downstairs. "Go to sleep the pair of you!"

  In disgust, Jennet threw Ben against the pillows, snatched up the album and stormed from the room..

  Ben winced as the door slammed shut and rattled in its frame. From Jennet's room there came the sound of her stomping, then the bed groaned as she cast herself upon it, followed by a flood of bitter and miserable tears.

  As the night deepened, sleep washed over both children and they were lost in fitful slumbers.

  Whitby grew dark; only the buzzing street lamps shone in the town, for every house light was extinguished as all inhabitants sought their rest. The small houses that balanced upon the brink of the river now stared with unlit windows down at their reflections and silence spread through the swaddling night.

  The mouth of the River Esk was calm and still. In the harbour, countless fishing boats bumped softly against each other, bobbing languidly upon the high tide. A group of gulls lazily rode the swollen waters and with mournful voices they gossipped and jeered.

  The water of the harbour was dark, black as jet—yet beneath the waves something far blacker was moving.

  Between the two piers that stretched far into the sea, a rush of bubbles suddenly shattered the smooth face of the tide. Waves began to foam as from the deeps something surged, passing beneath the shadows of the lighthouses and drifting towards the distant town.

  Floating contentedly, the chattering gulls washed their beaks and shook their weary heads. With a peevish peck at its closest neighbour, one of the larger ones stretched its wings and prepared to take to the air.

  Abruptly it was surrounded by a frothing mass of water and the bird let out a terrified screech as it floundered helplessly.

  At once the entire host of gulls rose from the river, shrieking down at the bubbling surface in frightened alarm. Their comrade was still flapping in wild panic but its cries increased as it saw a dark shadow pass below the waves. Only when the trail of bubbles moved away was the gull free and it shot upwards to join the others.

  Hovering on the night airs, they watched the gurgling path advance towards the quayside until it came to a seething halt by the harbour wall.

  Above the rippling waves a black shape rose and the air darkened around it as shadows gathered to conceal what the sea had sent forth.

  From the river, the creature climbed. It was a formless horror like an immense and tarry amoeba that extended a thick, snaking arm to heave itself up the steps. With a vile squelching sound it slowly moved through the narrow cobbled streets, and where the great flabby bulk passed a stinking path of slime was left in its wake.

  Beneath the bedroom windows of snoring townsfolk it crept, with only one purpose filling its black mind. Towards Miss Boston's cottage it went, squeezing through the alleyway and oozing into the courtyard beyond.

  At the front door, the thing stopped and the snake-like limb melted back into the quivering body. Rolling forward, the creature pressed against the wall and glued its hideous shape to the brickwork.

  Clinging to the mortar, the bloated nightmare began to crawl and with a faint sucking noise, it stole upwards. Like a great black leech it slithered past the window of the sickroom and drew closer to its goal.

  Pulling itself to the upper window, the slimy horror spread out two strands of dank flesh and gripped the sill firmly.

  Within the bedroom, Ben muttered in his sleep and rolled over, kicking the blankets from him and pushing his head deeper into the pillows.

  The hideous shape pushed itself on to the window-pane, revealing a dim grey mass of liquid muscle like the underside of a snail. Flattened against the glass, frills of pale flesh parted and two clusters of eyes pushed forward to spy into the room.

  Glittering balefully, the fragmented eyes peered long at the sleeping boy and in the swirling fronds of slime a ghastly mouth fell open.

  Three tentacles stretched from the damp glistening skin and their sensitive, squirming tips began to feel all around the window, tapping and groping for a way in.

  Trapped in a gruesome dream, Ben whimpered. He felt as though a great dark cloud was smothering him, pressing itself against his nose and mouth. With an unhappy groan he turned on to his back, flinging his arm over the edge of the bed, and one by one his fingers fell open.

  On to the carpet rolled the ammonite and from the vileness that clung to the window ledge like some hellish fleshy spider, there came a gurgling and a contented sigh.

  2 - The Bitterest Of Herbs

  Brandishing a large umbrella high above her head so that it afforded little protection from the inclement weather, Sister Frances marched over the swing bridge as though she were charging into battle. In her other hand she gripped the handles of a capacious brown shopping bag that had seen better days and was bound around and patched with various
coloured tapes.

  It had been another wet morning, yet she was not one to mind a little bit of rain. The nun enjoyed the feel of the drops plopping on to her upturned face and would often hold her mouth open to by and catch them.

  Into the centre of every puddle she stamped her enormous feet, smiling broadly to herself with each satisfying splash.

  She was a bizarre figure: of all the nuns in the convent of the West Cliff, Sister Frances was undoubtedly the most unusual. Attached to those great, gauche feet were a pair of long, stalk-like legs that were perpetually hidden within thick black woollen stockings, through which her lumpy knees protruded like a couple of gnarled and bulbous potatoes.

  The nun's body was straight as a plank and from the collar of her habit her neck stretched and tapered up to a long gawky head which always seemed to be grinning like a laughing mannequin at a fairground.

  This strange, spoon-shaped woman was in her early forties and there was no one in Whitby who had not heard or been made aware of her. When she galumphed by, the sight of her brought smiles to many, but to others the merest glimpse could bring only dread.

  It wasn't as if she was a bad person—no one could be sweeter. Frances was an innocent and had all the eagerness to please that a faithful terrier possesses.

  That was in fact her main problem: Sister Frances utterly exhausted people. She would rush headlong into situations without stopping to think of the consequences. So anxious to be of service, she would be deaf to any refusals until satisfied that her duty had been well and truly done.

  Many times the Mother Superior had gritted her teeth to endure the nun's unasked for assistance, but what to do with her was a complete bafflement. For an order which devoted itself to visiting the sick, it had been extremely embarrassing to receive that snarling telephone call from the senior registrar. In no uncertain terms he shouted that Sister Frances would never be permitted to enter the hospital again—from now on the building was barred to her.