The Whitby Witches 3: The Whitby Child

by Robin Jarvis

  The witch hounds were bawling the abhorrent song now, their fiendish muzzles furrowed with rage and their long teeth dripping with frothing saliva—anticipating the murder they were impelling Jennet to commit.

  Dark shadows gathered around the cottage as night settled over the town. Revelling in the evil tension, his eyes bright as lamps, the fishmonkey let out a high-pitched, reedy laugh. In a fever of black rejoicing, the foul creature pulled himself up Hillian's plump arm and scrambled to her shoulder to get a better view of the window above.

  Clinging to the lapel of her expensive jacket, the fishmonkey cackled and squawked shrilly.

  "Destroy him! Plunge the weapon deep into the whelp's gullet! Hack and chop! Disembowel the enemy of the Allpowerful—let there be but offal and gore! Strew his entrails over the sea!"

  Balancing on the witch hound's shoulder he threw back his ghastly head and tittered wildly, clapping the webbed claws, thrilling to the discordant sorceries that bludgeoned and blasted into the cottage.

  In her bedroom, Miss Boston and Ben cowered against the wardrobe as Jennet lunged through the ragged hole she had made in the door and clambered over the dressing-table barricade.

  The girl was almost fainting in despair but the incessant will of the coven propelled her on and she could only splutter and scream as she stalked over to the old lady and her brother.

  "Jen!" Ben whined. "Snap out of it—you can do it!"

  "I can't!" she cried pathetically.

  Girding herself one last time, Miss Boston raised her hands and in a forceful voice proclaimed, "In God's holy name! I do evoke the hallowed strength of all the Seraphim, Cherubim, Witnesses, Thrones, Principalities, Dominions, Powers, Angels and Archangels! Aid us in this dark hour, drive out the bewitchment. Let the strings that tie this child be cut!"

  For an instant Jennet wavered as the cruel enchantments yielded. But the iron resolve and ferocious tenacity of the coven snapped back around her as their howling screeches yammered to a crescendo outside and with a mournful whimper the girl pounced at Aunt Alice.

  Valiantly, the old lady wrestled with the spear that came plunging for her. With all her remaining strength she tried to tear it from Jennet's grasp but it was no use. The girl punched and kicked and with an agonised cry, Miss Boston was knocked to the floor.

  "Aunt Alice!" Jennet shrieked, and she leaped over her body towards Ben. "Stop me, someone!"

  The boy cringed in the corner as his possessed sister crept up to him with the deadly weapon poised in her hands.

  "Don't do it, Jen!" he begged through his tears. "Please!"

  Jennet's torture disfigured her features. Her livid face was drenched with sweat and tears, and though she tried to scream as her arms raised the spear over her head, only a throttled moan came out.

  Ben pressed into the corner and his round eyes stared in mortal dread at the blade which reared above him.

  "Jen!" he wailed for the last time.

  Sprawled over the floor, Miss Boston lifted her aching head just as the weapon plummeted towards Ben.

  "No!" she shrieked.

  Outside the cottage the coven gave a tremendous shout, then their savage voices were drowned by a hideous scream. Ben's voice blistered over the courtyard and the witch hounds held their breath expectantly. Abruptly the boy's shrill cry ended and the fishmonkey sucked the air through his needlelike teeth, widening a ghastly smile.

  "Is it done?" he cackled to himself. "Is it over?"

  From the upstairs window Jennet's distraught howls rose to an insane yell and through her raving shrieks Miss Boston's appalled voice spluttered.

  "Benjamin! Benjamin! He's dead. Jennet—you killed him!"

  The girl's torment was terrible to hear, yet the members of the coven lapped up the hideous grief and their tongues came lolling from their foaming jaws.

  Only one of the witch hounds turned away in disgust. The smallest of the misshapen women covered her face and the bones shrank inside the malformed head until Pear regained her human form. In revulsion and shame she lowered her moist eyes and stepped back from the others.

  "I must be certain," the fishmonkey hissed anxiously. "I must know the landbreed maggot is dead."

  Closing his glinting eyes, the creature stretched out his bony claws and searched the cottage with his mind.

  "The girl is descending the stairs," he sensed "How lame and shaken she is—yet up in that room what shall we find?"

  Emitting a triumphant gurgle, the fishmonkey writhed upon Hillian's shoulder and his breath came in gulping wheezes as he cackled and sniggered.

  "Only one other presence is within!" he screeched. "One of great age—and the reek of death overshadows her. The wormling is no more! We have accomplished the task. My master is victorious!"

  The front door of the cottage opened slowly and upon the threshold Jennet stared out at them.

  Blood stained her hands, and patches of dark crimson were smeared and spattered over her school uniform. Her blank face was drained of all colour and expression and her eyes were dull and glassy, as though it was she and not her brother who had perished.

  Suddenly, as if even to stand was too much for her, the girl swayed and she slumped against the door.

  Quickly Pear rushed over to her. "Jennet!" she called, putting her arms about her. "Let me help you—come with me."

  Like a zombie, Jennet allowed the girl to lead her towards the coven. As if in a dream, Jennet saw the frightful witch hounds gather about her, but at her side Pear whispered reassuringly and supported her when she stumbled.

  "Ben..." Jennet muttered thickly. "Ben... I... I killed..."

  Lifting her shaking hands she gazed at the sticky blood, but her emotions were utterly drained and she looked up in confusion as Hillian Fogle assumed her human shape once more.

  "I'm one of you now," Jennet breathed. "There's nothing left for me here."

  Hillian beamed at her. "Again I do welcome you, sister," she said. "You have done your work well. The coven of the Black Sceptre has a new and loyal disciple."

  Pear gave Jennet a joyful hug. "I told you we'd be sisters," she sighed. "Don't worry—you'll forget this, I promise. The nightmares do end—I know. Oh, there's some nasty scratches down your neck here, do they hurt? They look deep and painful."

  "Your brother did not die without protest, I see," Hillian commented, then she instructed Pear to take care of her and regarded the fishmonkey sternly.

  "So," she declared, "our part of the bargain has been kept. It is the turn of your master now to be fulfilling his half. He must not betray us!"

  "Fear not, bride of Crozier," the creature answered. "The Allpowerful doth intend to reward thee. Let us repair to the place appointed."

  Hillian removed the monster from her shoulder and he suffered to be covered in the cloth once more as the witch hounds melted back into their ordinary selves and headed for the alleyway.

  "Hillian!" Meta called, running after her. "That old hag is still alive in there—she might yet cause difficulties."

  The owner of the curio shop glanced back at the cottage. "Then she must die," she uttered calmly.

  "Elizabeth! See to it this instant, then join us as swift as you can!"

  Liz looked at her rebelliously. "But Nathaniel!" she whined in protest. "I don't want to miss..."

  "At once!" Hillian demanded. "Obey me or you shall never set eyes on him again!"

  The timid woman gave a fearful nod then bounded towards the cottage, and as she ran her face transformed to its previous half state. Snarling, the witch hound stormed through the open door and went ravaging up the stairs.

  ***

  Tarr placed his hand on his granddaughter's forehead and withdrew it hastily.

  "The lass is burnin'," he mumbled dismally.

  Old Parry dipped a rag into a bowl of cold water and dabbed it over Nelda's brow.

  "She'm fadin'," the crone observed. "Won't see the night out. I've seen it afore—too many times."

  Tarr stagg
ered to the entrance of the cave and smote the rocky wall with his fist.

  Since the setting of the sun, Nelda's condition had declined rapidly. Her temperature soared, racing to an unbelievable heat, and the fevered brain of the young aufwader began to deceive her senses with fanciful and rambling delusions.

  Visions of the mother she had never seen drifted before her misted eyes until they were dashed by the wrath of the sea, and then her late aunt was sitting by her side.

  Perched upon her head was the familiar battered oilskin hat, and jammed about her waist that ridiculous cork lifebelt. In the shadow of the hat's brim her large eyes glittered kindly and a gentle smile broke over the pickled walnut face as she looked at her niece. "Take heart, Little One," she whispered, "you'll be with us soon."

  "Hesper!" Nelda mumbled deliriously as the vision shimmered. "Have you come for me?"

  Old Parry's face twitched and grimaced. "Garn, Shrimp!" she huffed. "Now she thinks I'm yer daughter!"

  With his spirit broken, Tarr gave Nelda a woebegone glance and, unable to stand the sight of her distress any longer, he shambled from the cave and into the night.

  "He were always squeamish," Parry snorted. "Menfolk—ain't got the stomach for watchin' on death!" and she nibbled a morsel of salted fish appreciatively.

  A jet black darkness had engulfed the shore below the cliffs and the creeping tide was invisible as it moved stealthily over the rocks.

  Desolate and crushed beyond endurance, Tarr limped down towards the water's edge then fell to his knees. His racking sobs squalled over the sea while behind him, emerging from their caves, came the rest of the fisherfolk.

  In sombre silence they watched their leader lamenting and heard his keening wails float on the heavy air. Then, one by one, they trailed down to join him at the brink of the rolling, sable waves.

  Upon the horizon a jagged streak of brilliance suddenly lit sky and sea and a peal of distant thunder rumbled ominously. For an instant the crowd of aufwaders were caught in the stark glare, then everything was swallowed by the darkness once more.

  Yet the remote brewing storm mounted steadily and bolts of energy crackled from the troubled heavens. Assembled about Tarr, the tribe lifted their weary faces and felt the wind turn as rumour of the tempest spread inland. Long, shell-entwined hair stirred in the growing, buffeting breeze and the languorous waves began to race over the flat rocks of the shore.

  Stricken with grief, Tarr wept for Nelda and her unborn child until his eyes were stinging. Then as the thunder roared closer he raised his ashen face and his anger flared within him.

  "Growl all tha can!" he bawled, shaking his fist at the lightning. "Ah know it's tha in theer. Showing off agin, are tha? Well, it don't impress me. Come on—blast me yer divils!

  "Narr!" he ranted. "It's the lass that tha's come fer! Her an' her bairn—well, she'm almost ready! Not much time left to them!"

  Clambering to his feet, he turned bitterly to the tribe and roared in a voice to match and challenge the thunder. "Bring out the black boat!" he boomed. "An' bear my Nelda out here also. I want them three nazards to see what they've done to her! I want them to look on her agonies and hear them fretful screams. If theer's any shame in them sour hearts then I hope it burns 'em. Stir thesselves! Get her, I says!"

  The fisherfolk looked at one another doubtfully, then as one they hurried to obey him.

  ***

  With her claws raking over the flowered wallpaper and scoring deep tracks in the plaster beneath, the grotesque witch hound climbed the shadow-filled stairs of Miss Boston's cottage.

  Her nostrils gaped as she savoured the scintillating fragrance of fear that still hung on the air, and on to the landing the apparition stepped.

  One old woman was an easy and boring kill, and in this daunting form Liz expected no retaliation from the irritating nuisance. A swift slash with the claws across the throat and the job would be done and she could hasten after the others to greet him. It was all too incredible and fantastic, but that night she would look on his features again, hear his voice—perhaps even feel his embrace.

  Desperate for that yearned-for moment, she threw open the bedroom door and with a smack of her talons, the obstructing dressing table beyond was hurled against the wall.

  "Don't you believe in knocking?" called a peremptory voice.

  The witch-hound snapped her jaws and her eyes gleamed in the gloom, then suddenly the light was switched on and a startling figure leapt before her.

  There, robustly weaving her walking stick through the air as though it were a sword—was Miss Boston.

  The old lady's countenance was grave and fierce and she lashed the weapon expertly from side to side.

  A raging growl bubbled up from the witch hound's throat as she stared at the idiotic spectacle, and tensing her muscles, she prepared to spring.

  "On guard!" Miss Boston yelled, hopping forward and striking the fiend's snout with the stick.

  Liz barked in outraged amazement that anyone could be so stupid.

  "Ho, ho!" Miss Boston cried, swiping the stick across her opponent's leg. "Nice doggy want some exercise?"

  Enraged, the beast snarled and lunged violently at her. Miss Boston threw up her weapon to defend herself and deflected the ripping claws.

  "Come on!" she taunted, thwacking Liz on the head. "I'm only a feeble old woman!"

  Driven berserk by this infuriating torment, the witch-hound roared and charged at her. The two clashed brutally, toppling against the wardrobe, and after the briefest of struggles Miss Boston was thrown to the ground.

  Down swooped the rapacious jaws, snapping for the ample folds of skin around Miss Boston's neck.

  But the old lady was not beaten yet. Fumbling with her hands, she strained to reach a bottle that had fallen from the dressing table, and just as the long teeth came to rip out her throat she seized the perfume and sprayed it right into the witch hound's face.

  Yowling, Liz reared back and clawed at her burning eyes. Immediately Miss Boston scrambled to her feet, and snatching up a vase from the window ledge, brought it smashing down upon the creature's skull.

  Her attacker let out a frightful shriek of pain, but was not defeated and the blood which trickled down her muzzle served only to enrage her all the more. With the murderous glow from her shining eyes casting a hellish light upon the old lady, Liz rose and flew at her.

  But Miss Boston had already reached beneath the bed and with a tremendous "CLANG!" struck the witch hound with a large porcelain vessel that sent her reeling across the room.

  "One for the pot!" Aunt Alice yelled, unable to resist the unforgivable remark.

  A feeble groan burbled from Liz's canine lips as she tried to raise her head, but a mass of black stars was crowding around her and she collapsed senseless to the floor.

  "Pity," Miss Boston announced, rolling the figure over with a shove of her shoe, "I was just getting into my stride!" And she whirled the walking stick two or three times, thrusting and parrying and feeling mightily pleased with herself.

  Stepping over the unconscious Liz, the old lady gazed sorrowfully at the corner of the room where a glistening heap of gore was spreading over the carpet.

  "Tragic," she muttered. "If only I could have prevented it."

  Turning aside, she waddled to the wardrobe and rapped three times on the door.

  "It's all right," she promised. "You can come out now."

  The wardrobe creaked open and a frightened face peered out at her.

  "Was it too stuffy in there for you, dear?" she inquired. "I'm most awfully sorry but I knew those wretches would send someone in for me. I do hope you weren't too alarmed when we slammed into the door."

  Grinning cheekily, she helped Ben out from amongst her clothes and the boy stared at the witch-hound on the floor.

  "Is she dead?" he asked doubtfully.

  "Good Lord no!" Aunt Alice returned. "But I think she might have distemper and also a touch of mange by the look of her. Still, it'll be a long ti
me before she feels up to going for a walky."

  Ben shifted his attention to the bloody corpse in the corner but Miss Boston clucked and told him that he could mourn for Eurydice later.

  "A most marvellous feline," she commented. "I'm beginning to understand what Tilly Droon saw in the species. Was it really sheer fright that made Eurydice jump out like that and scratch your sister's face or did she indeed sacrifice herself for you? I don't suppose we shall ever know. It cost the unfortunate animal her life, but otherwise Jennet would never have been jolted from their influence. Come, we must make haste; the coven have still got your sister and I'm going after them. Pass me that cloak please, Benjamin. Goodness knows the girl must be terrified. Is the amulet secure around your neck?"

  Ben fingered the pendant that Irl had given to Aunt Alice and nodded.

  "Good," she said, throwing her tweed cloak over her shoulders. "Now we haven't a moment to lose; the herald warned me that its power to conceal you from the Deep Ones and their agents does not last long."

  Striding towards the door, she paused to look at the walking stick in her hand and with a hearty, jubilant chuckle cried, "I don't think I need you any more!" and she hung it on the door handle before marching determinedly down the stairs.

  "But how do you know where they've taken Jen?" Ben called.

  "There's only one place that'll do for their hellish purpose this night!" she answered, hurrying through the wreckage of the hallway. "Come on, child—to the Abbey!"

  13 - Born In The Fires

  Black, blanketing clouds had coursed in from the sea, covering the face of heaven and pressing low over the cliffs of Whitby—heralding the approaching storm.

  The first fine drops of rain drizzled from the midnight sky but the brash wind scattered and whisked the mizzling shower, hurling it wildly about the crumbling dignity of the ancient Abbey ruins.

  The grounds of the holy, broken building had been locked at six, many hours ago, but above the noise of the gusting wind a sharp metallic snap echoed over the Abbey plain as chains were cut and padlocks forced. In the darkness the gates hung from their hinges and the breathless, impatient intruders passed through, smashing the doors of the shop beyond and hurrying out on to the wet grass.