He shoved his hands deep into his pockets. Anyway, it was good to be back at work; good to feel part of the human race again; and especially good to be out here on an afternoon like this, with the warmth of the sun on his back and the smell of fresh, wild garlic in the air. It was mind over matter that was all – people here needed a positive attitude now, to reclaim this stunning countryside as their own. It wasn’t the Deans’ and they should take it back.
Hang on, that’s weird…
Stopping short, he frowned. Surely with the sunlight behind him, his shadow should stretch out ahead? But it didn’t. It spread sideways instead, almost as if there were three of him. He checked over his shoulder for a possible cause, but there was no one else there, nothing in fact, which could explain it. Now if he’d had a huge bear on his back it would have made sense. Maybe a cloud? He looked up. The sky was clear. Come to think of it, this wasn’t the first time he’d had a feeling of being shadowed or followed, even in full sun. He’d put it down to depression and the disturbing images he had when asleep. They called it the black dog, didn’t they, depression?
Yeah, that must be it – it was in his own mind…and it would lift…
Ahead lay the forest leading up to Woodsend – a village no longer inhabited. With the Deans imprisoned and the row of decrepit council houses on Ravenshill awaiting demolition, there was no one here anymore; and therefore nothing to be afraid of. Even so…he glanced over to the cool shade of the forest, at the trees which lined the path like grim sentinels – and shivered. It was a spooky place.
Oh come on! Could he really say that trees and fresh water and luscious green grass scared him? At worst it was only ghosts of the past, and those he could deal with. In fact, it had been scientifically proven that imprints of energy could remain in our own time dimension, particularly when something traumatic had happened. Anyway, all he had to do this afternoon was take a good look round – see if there was anything they’d missed or he could add before beginning, at long last, to write up the concluding report on Tanners Dell before the trials began this autumn.
Forensics had completed their examinations, the entire area scrutinised for every last vestige of evidence. The caravans at Fairy Hill had been removed and the Deans’ place taken apart floorboard by floorboard. A grim job that had been. Ida Dean’s laundry room had been full of frayed, greying sheets, cotton nappies, and children’s clothing ingrained with the kind of stains no amount of washing could ever remove. And on the shelves were racks of glass bottles containing a variety of herbal mixtures, including lethal concoctions of belladonna, hemlock and wolfsbane. Paul Dean’s computer contained thousands of images of child pornography and hard porn; and in the loft they found a large collection of torture, horror porn and snuff movies. That the place was a stinking cesspit surprised no one, that there were human remains underneath the floors, did. It had taken weeks to sort through and catalogue; every member of the team now undergoing professional counselling.
From underneath the abbey over two hundred skeletons – animals, small children and babies mostly, plus several unidentified adults – had been disinterred. Not all were recent either – many dated back centuries, which was odd because the tiny, ringed cemetery was full of the many orphans the sisters at the abbey had tried to help, their gravestones clearly engraved with names and dates. So why there were skeletons dating back to the sixteenth century underneath the building as well, no one had yet worked out. Who had put them there? And where had the sisters themselves been buried? God, that really was odd now he came to think of it. It would be interesting to get to the root of this because the village seemed to have had quite a dark history long before Lucas Dean had even been born. What on earth went on here? Well anyway, he was a detective not a history scholar – his job was just to try and get the police evidence wrapped up so the likes of Ernest Scutts and Paul Dean would be banged up for a very, very long time.
On nearing the entrance to the woods, a tomb-like chill wafted against his face. Toby hesitated, looking back at the sun-baked river bank and sparkling water instead. Surely a few minutes relaxing first wouldn’t hurt, would it? Turning round he sank onto the grass and kicked off his shoes, raising his face to the sun. It was so wonderful to be in the light again that was all, and the water tumbling over the shiny rocks was dazzling, mesmeric…He leaned back to soak up the warm, golden haze. First day back: he’d been off a long time after working in the vault underneath Tanners Dell and it wasn’t something he was going to forget easily – if ever – those nightly visits from dark shapes crawling into his mind, paralysing him in sleep, forcing him to endure the torment. Night after night he’d woken screaming, sopping with sweat, heart hammering into his ribs.
But it was alright now. It was… He lay down on the toasted earth. It was all going to be just fine…
He was startled awake by a cacophony of rooks bursting into the sky. Sitting up, he looked at his watch. Oh no, flaming hell – two hours had slipped by. A light breeze lowed in the trees, the sun having dipped behind them. Best get a shimmy on or Sid Hall would be ringing. Sid, his sergeant, should have retired this summer but he’d hung on after Scutts had been arrested. Gut instinct, he called it. Yeah, more like he wanted both Callum and Toby on their feet properly first. He jumped up. Sid had been like a father to him and no way would he let him down.
The temperature in the forest was noticeably chillier as he climbed over the style and jumped down; and despite it being a public right of way, the main track up from the river was overgrown, making it difficult to see where it was. Still, he thought, with the reputation of the place it was no wonder really – who would want to wander through here out of choice? At least it was dry and if you pushed the ferns aside not too difficult to pick through. After a while the sound of the gurgling river behind became muted and he stopped to catch his breath, listening. Curious: there were no sounds of life in here at all. No birds. No rustling in the undergrowth. The air was close too – trapped and stale – and although only four o’clock and still daylight, in here it was dismal and grey, the canopy of leaves shadowing the ground almost to dusk. He marched on, eventually passing a cottage on the right so overrun with foliage it could easily have been missed. Woodpecker Cottage presumably – where that poor boy had been brought up, the one Kristy had taken care of? He looked on ahead. The path seemed to be getting much darker as the forest deepened. There was a sense of being very alone.
His own breath came loudly in his ears as the climb steepened. Maybe this had been a bad idea? Surely the Deans’ old place should be in front of him by now? Trekking on, he began to break a sweat, until gradually the ground levelled off and there in front, appearing through the tree trunks, was a chimney stack. He stopped to get his breath, leaning against the trunk of an old oak. God, he was so unfit. He used to run and work out every day – he really must get back into it as soon as possible…In fact…
Wow!
Abruptly his mind chatter ceased. To the west a prism of sunrays beamed through the woodland, giving the illusion of a brilliantly lit corridor surrounded by a spectrum of pink. Almost, he thought, like a moon rainbow. And at the end lay a ring of shining white stones.
Without thought or hesitation he immediately started walking towards it, veering off the main path, tripping over roots, branches snapping in his face, in order to take a better look. The team had examined this, of course, but no evidence of any kind had been found at the site, its existence marked down as little more than an aside.
What a magical sort of place, though…He crouched down to examine it close-up. The stones had eroded into smooth boulders with age - thirteen in all, the largest positioned at the western point. And in contrast to the outlying area the grass inside the circle was lushly verdant. He looked up. The treetops were far enough apart to let in dappled light. But more than that, the oak trees, old and gnarled as they were…also appeared to form a circle, towering overhead like guardians.
Walking into the middle he twirled around
and around, still looking up: yes of course, ancient pagans would have relied on the position of the sun, moon and stars for their rituals – working closely with the laws of nature – and from here would have had a perfect view. Wow, there was a real sense of history here – an atmosphere – like reaching back in time…
What happened next, however, was something he could never explain.
A blinding pressure suddenly rushed to his head – a pulsating, sickly throbbing – and he staggered as if drunk. Whoa… At once the sky became a multi-coloured kaleidoscope, the tree canopy a spinning vortex. Grasping at thin air he tried not to fall as the white stones whizzed round in a crazy carousel, picking up speed until they blurred to a whole.
Outside of the circle the forest instantly blackened to night and a hypnotic, low hum emanated from within. He clasped the sides of his head to block it out, reeling as the ground began to buck and rise beneath him. Groups of hooded figures were gathering in every direction, gliding sedately at first, then rapidly rushing forwards with torches of fire. He tried to reach for one of the stones, but the earth rose up, slamming hard into the side of his face, and as he lay stunned, a ring of torches formed around him.
What the fuck was this? What was going on? This was madness… He was mad… madder than he thought…
Grasping at blades of grass, clawing into the soil, intuition screamed at him to get out of the ring. The nearest boulder gleamed brilliant white but oh-so-far-away. Repeatedly he lunged for it, slithering on his belly as if climbing uphill, until finally his fingers made contact with the satisfying solidity of the stone. Clinging on by the nails, he levered his bodyweight up inch by inch, until finally he had a better purchase and could hurl himself out; rolling over and over onto the hard, dry earth into the cool silence of the forest.
For a long while he lay on his back panting hard, swallowing down the vomit in his throat. Thumping pain cramped the nerves in his head like the worst of migraines but… he glanced around several times in every direction…it seemed he was alone again… all was gloomy and still, just as before.
He flopped back.
What the fuck? Seriously – what the fuck was that?
The only experience he’d ever had remotely like it was after a stupid experiment with magic mushrooms and a bottle of 8% cider as a teen.
He tried to sit up but fell back again, cracking his head and blacking out.
When he next opened his eyes it was night. He blinked, puzzled. Stars glittered in between the treetops; it was bitterly cold with a light frost on the crunchy leaves beneath him; and the branches were stark - a smell of smoke and bonfires in the air.
This didn’t make any sense at all. Slowly his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he shook his head at the sight of a shadow before him. What the hell….? An explosion of shock thumped him square in the chest. The blackened, dead-eyed body of a woman hanging by the neck was swaying in front of him.
***
Chapter Four
Bridesmoor
May, 1583
Fifteen year old Magda turned breathlessly to her younger sister, Cicely, and pulled her up the hill. “Come on, we’re almost at the top now.”
The evening was unseasonably humid, the steep path slippery, rainwater still dripping from overhead leaves. Cicely took Magda’s proffered hand and together they climbed the remaining few feet to Five Sisters Abbey, panting, a light sheen of sweat on their faces.
“You first,” said Cicely, indicating the high stone wall.
Magda nodded. It was the least she could do. “Give me a lift up, then.”
Cicely made a stirrup shape with her hand and Magda stepped into it, levering herself onto the top. She reached down for Cicely. “Put your foot into that hollow bit there – the crack between the stones – and hold onto me.”
Cicely, being only thirteen and small for her age, was light - still a child - and Magda swung her up with ease.
“It’s so beautiful,” Cicely said.
Beneath them, the Tudor garden shimmered in the blue haze of an early summer evening. Scented with damp earth and fresh, new roses, it had been intricately laid out in parterres enclosed by clipped box hedges. Gravel walkways enabled easy maintenance, with stone archways separating one part of the garden from another; and partly hidden by evening shadows small flights of steps led to further secret gardens; stone statues and fountains punctuated the lawns, and an ash arbour sat in the shade of the wall. Enchanted, they stared, eyes shining. Each small square of roses had been carefully planted with various colour combinations, from white to pastel pink to the deepest ruby red. The girls nodded to each other. Perfect.
“Look over there too,” Magda said, pointing towards an outbuilding that would be useful for a hasty retreat. They could vanish into the forest as if they had never been here. Besides, they agreed, the nuns would surely not notice a few missing blooms. Everyone knew they lived in luxury while the villagers starved. Ambrose said it was because of all the good work they did for the orphans: these were women of God and it would be blasphemy to question it.
Magda worked quickly, losing herself in the swish of leaves and rasp of the knife as she dropped roses into her basket, determined not to notice the tears wetting her sister’s cheeks. No doubt Cicely was thinking about what was to come. Well, what had to be done, had to be done. Tomorrow her sister would be the village May Queen, paraded through the streets in a cart adorned with flowers. After which she would be married.
The marriage ceremony itself would begin at dusk in the stone circle they had just passed; ending at midnight with a supreme sacrifice. It had to be made for the gods of fertility to be appeased or there would be nothing but death and destruction. Ambrose had proclaimed this as fact and no one doubted him. Already the plague had claimed a third of the local town’s population, and the famine of last winter had left people in the surrounding villages starving: the old, the weak, the bairns – all had perished before February was out.
Her sister would have a beautiful crown of roses – she would make sure of that. The wedding dress of white wool lay across her bed in their small family cottage all ready for the big day: how pretty she would look wearing that, waving to onlookers as it led her and simple-minded Ezra to their grand finale. Not as pretty as she herself would have looked, but the attention would have to be on Cicely tomorrow. She and Ezra were the only maidens over thirteen, the only ones who could save the village from pestilence and famine. It would be an honour – a day of glory – and it would be their last.
An owl hooted nearby, cutting into her thoughts. Startled, she caught her thumb on a thorn. “Ouch!”
“Magda?” Cicely rushed over, dabbing at the swelling bilberry of blood with her only handkerchief. Her face was shiny and wet from crying, and Magda put her arms around her, burying her face in her sister’s tumble of strawberry-blonde curls, so starkly different from the straight, raven black of her own.
“We’ve got enough now. Let’s go home.”
Cicely suddenly stepped back, searching her sister’s face. “Did you hear that?”
“No. What?”
They stood as statues. “There,” said Cicely. “Listen.”
Both turned in the direction of the darkening forest, as a low, steady whistle shivered through the branches.
“It’s just the wind,” said Magda. “Come on, let’s get back.”
The light had dipped to midnight blue, a soft mist hovering over the ground as the girls hurried down the track, Cicely in front, occasionally glancing over her shoulder to check on Magda.
One more night sleeping with her sister. One more season before the village would know if the crops came good. One more day, week, month before they’d know if the plague was coming for them… It was only to be hoped Cicely’s sacrifice would not be in vain.
The Old Coach Road from Doncaster had been closed for weeks now, with the epidemic having taken over eight hundred people in less than six months. It had, the townspeople claimed, arrived with a tradesman
on his way from London to Edinburgh. He’d been taken sick, fallen from his horse and cart, and lay on the roadside in a fever. A kindly woman had taken him in and now the death toll was rising fast. Within days of contracting the pestilence people collapsed with a high fever and vomiting, before exhibiting the terrifying death knell of excruciatingly painful swellings in their groins or armpits, otherwise known as buboes. They died in agony, often within hours. Crosses were nailed to doors and bodies quickly buried. The sudden, widespread deaths cut a swathe through a population ignorant of either cause or cure.
Ambrose said it would come for them too. Whole villages had been wiped out, and if they didn’t die of the plague they would likely die of famine if the crops failed again this year. Either way, their deaths, compared to the swift, clean end Cicely and Ezra would face, would be prolonged and torturous. Conviction amongst the villagers grew: Ambrose, their parson, was the most influential man for miles around, and the only one who could save them.
As the older sister, it was supposed to have been her, of course. She who should have been tied to hapless, fourteen year old Ezra, have her throat cut and her blood drunk from cups…
But Ambrose had been watching her for a while.
One evening as she walked back through the woods, damp from bathing in the river, her thin cotton dress still moulded to her curves, he caught up with her. They walked abreast for a while. Few words were exchanged. Rather, it had been an understanding that occurred, a live and glitteringly dangerous thing, which grew and took shape.
Magda: A Darkly Disturbing Occult Horror Trilogy - Book 3 Page 3
