“Amy?”
Taking the stairs two at a time he bounded up to the landing, flinging wide the first door he came to. A single, cast-iron bed lay swathed in moonlight, still made up with sheets, a row of faded, stuffed toys eyeing him silently from the bookshelf. A flowery dress had caught in the wardrobe door, its sleeve sticking out. But there was no one there.
Apart from the bathroom the only other door was to the second bedroom, which was slightly ajar. He kicked it back so hard it hit the wall.
Amy was standing with her back to him surveying the garden below. Silhouetted against the night sky, her hair hung long and dark, and she appeared to be hugging herself, rocking slightly to and fro.
“Alright,” he said, more softly now. “You’ve had your fun, Amy. You spooked me out. Your mate must have got out behind my back but this is it – we’re going home now. Well, you can stay if you want but I’ve had enough.”
It was then he realised she wasn’t laughing.
Slowly turning from the window to face him, her eyes had altered in shape so they tilted upwards at the outer corners, and her lips were fuller, redder. “I can feel her in me.”
“I said that’s enough, Amy. You’re scaring the crap out of me.”
With her arms out in front she glided towards him, half-smiling – reaching out. “William!”
“What? No, I’m not…” He stumbled backwards, realising there was something horribly wrong with her eyes. “Amy?” They seemed to have rolled back in her head with only the whites showing. “Fuck. Oh fucking hell…”
Her hands were almost on his shoulders now and with a jolt of shock he noticed they were cadaverous, the skin decaying on her bones.
He shook his head in disbelief… “What the–” and was about to turn and run, when she threw herself into his arms.
***
Chapter Fourteen
Woodsend
September, 1583
For hours Magda sat in the mud leaning against the old oak, staring at Tanners Dell while the rain came down in sheets and the storm rolled over the moors.
A hard, cold downpour had set in. Thousands of tons of water scrambled furiously down the brook to the river below, bursting into surrounding fields and isolating trees. Already the ground was saturated, puddles were several inches deep; and branches still heavy with leaves periodically cracked and splintered under the additional weight, hanging like broken limbs.
How could he have deceived her so?
How could he?
The pain was a sharp blade cutting into a tiny, soft place somewhere in her breastbone – the place connected to her eyes, her lungs, her heart and her soul – making them bleed red-raw. It lodged as flint – every thought, every breath, every memory making it dig in a little deeper, extracting a little more pain and a little more blood.
Oh God, the smell of his skin, the taste of him, the crush of his iron grip…
They were not raindrops streaming down her face anymore, she realised, but stinging hot, salty tears dredged from a well deep inside her, one she didn’t even know she had until now, here, in this moment.
Life is over. It’s finished…there’s nothing left. Oh God, please help me…please take this pain away…I cannot live with it…
The hours passed in this way, until exhausted, with all her energy drained, she drifted into a sequence of bizarre dreams; only to jump awake again moments later. To her it was seconds. But the light had changed.
She looked around.
The deluge had relented considerably, the waterlogged forest appearing to float in a murky swamp – branches bowed and weeping, their leaves dipping into the quagmire. Inside her boots, her feet swilled and she bent to undo the laces. There was no going home but she’d better get moving and find somewhere to dry off, form a plan. These were perilous times.
It was either that or die.
As she wrung out her cloak and tipped out her boots, rage began to shake through to her fingers and blind her eyes. How dare they leave her to die. And how dare God. How dare He? Why did he not help her and her unborn child? Was her time over? Was this it? While those bastards lived on? The bone-cold seeped into her skin, now mottled, numb and shivery. All that time in church and this is what it came down to…cast out to die like an animal in the woods.
Damn the lot of them in their warm beds…no…fuck them.
Carrions Wood wore the wintry morning like wet, grey rag; and her boots squelched and sucked in the mud, making progress slow. But she kept up a pace, alert for signs of life, for anyone who might be looking for her. When the path ended and the steep lane to Bridesmoor came into view, she hesitated, listening for muffled footsteps in the foggy dawn. No, there was no one around.
Keeping close to the edge of the forest she hurried downhill towards the river. Mist clung to the hedgerows, spiders’ webs spanning the brambles with white crochet lace. Hopefully, no one would yet be afoot to see the dark-cloaked figure of a woman half-walking, half-running through the grey dawn. If word had got out it was her fault the harvest was ruined and they were dying of the plague, there was no doubt in her mind she would be hanged for a witch.
Sickly with hunger, she scanned the bushes. Alas, all the blackberries had turned to pulp, squishing into purple juice between her fingers, prickling the ends with thorns. There were apples in the churchyard, of course, but only the unripe green ones that gave you bellyache, and besides – going back was too much of a risk.
Magda’s long, black cloak flew behind her now as she hurried along the river path towards Woodsend. There were no longer any inhabitants on this side of the common, apart from the nuns at the abbey, the forest having a reputation for being haunted. They were nothing but old wives tales passed down through generations, but it kept casual visitors away and it would be safer here for a while – allowing time, at least, to hole up and think about what to do next.
She stepped into the dark, chilly forest. With her back icy and damp permeating her spine, hunger hollowed out her stomach. There was a place in here though, where she could dry off. A place no one else dared visit.
Well more fool them. More fool the lot of them – terrified, brainless vermin who blamed and murdered lone women for their own misfortunes – they should rot in hell.
Pressing on up the path she and Cicely had taken barely five months before, she paused halfway to get her breath. Woodpecker Cottage should be around here from what she remembered. The fog was almost impermeable in the middle of the woods, tree trunks looming in blackened stumps. There was, though…she squinted… yes, a faint outline of a chimney stack…the cottage was there…that was it.
With renewed purpose she plunged through the undergrowth. There hadn’t been anyone living here for decades: Woodpecker Cottage was supposed to be haunted by the spirit of a witch hanged many years previously. It was said that on a full moon she flew around on a broomstick and if you saw her or heard her whistle, she would bring the grim reaper to your door within a month.
The story went that the village parson had taken to visiting the woman, but she had rejected him, sweeping him off her doorstep and cursing the old man with the pox, from which he later died. Whispers of witchcraft soon followed, with reports of her keeping a toad as a pet, and sending a red-eyed owl to follow people home at dusk. Just one look from her caused God-fearing folk to drop down dead with convulsions, right there in the street, or certainly before nightfall. That didn’t stop people from visiting her for poultices or potions though; or local women asking for love spells. Well-known for working magical cures, she had been a common sight for years, often by the river harvesting herbs, whistling as she went. It was only, however, after a well-to-do-lady from town had brought her sickly child for a cure, and that child had screamed at her on sight, calling her a witch and dying of fever a matter of hours later, that the mob turned up.
They arrived one night – led by churchmen and doctors - carrying torch flames, dragged her outside and stripped her to expose the mark of the devil. Findin
g a birthmark on her back they charged her there and then with carrying out his work, after which they strung her up by the neck from the old oak at the bottom of the garden, leaving her swinging body to rot until it fell into the dust and was eaten by wolves.
Magda pushed open the cottage door. Dust carpeted the bare floorboards and cobwebs, glistening with dew, netted the windows. Weak rays of ethereal light stretched across the walls, the air musty and stale; and the only sound was that of a bird scratching in the flue.
Beside the dead woman’s empty hearth was an old armchair, its stuffing ravaged by rodents, and above the mantelpiece hung a large, heavily ornate, oval mirror.
Magda dropped her wet cloak over the stair rail and took off her boots, tipping them into the small kitchen sink. Her skirts, she thought, stepping out of them, could be hung outside when the sun rose. She looked around for something, anything to wrap herself in, teeth chattering uncontrollably, hugging herself as she wandered from room to room.
There had to be something left of the old hag’s property – a shawl, a scarf… But there was very little, she quickly realised, creaking open cupboards, and wrenching open drawers powdered in dust and reeking of mould. The place must have been ransacked too.
At the back of a large, surprisingly elaborate sideboard though, there was a stub of beeswax candle with a piece of flint; and in the kitchen, behind a grubby curtain under the sink unit, a small, brown phial containing what looked like sludge, together with a boline for cutting herbs, had been jammed well behind the wall. Upstairs there were only empty rooms, save for some creature scratching around in the attic; and discarded on the floorboards, a damp, discoloured shawl half-eaten by moths.
Standing in her petticoat she wrapped the shawl around her shoulders as best she could and went to sit by the black grate. It would be madness to try and light a fire. As kids she and some others had played here in the woods, daring each other to look through the windows, so today’s children might do the same, might they not? No, that would be far too dangerous and besides, a plume of smoke would be noticed for miles around. Oh, she’d survive. A shot of pink burned hotly in her cheeks along with a recurring sharp blade in her breast.
God damn them all to hell.
William Miller, I loved you…
Groaning and light-headed with hunger she stood up and glared into the mirror, her dark eyes flashing. Things had not gone to plan. How could this have happened? Gently her hands stroked her swollen tummy.
Where are you, God, when I need you? Why are you letting this happen? Why are you letting people here starve and die agonising deaths? Making girls like me take all the blame? Where are you? And how in hell am I supposed to feed myself and this child, with winter coming? Damn sitting on rock hard pews every week in a freezing church begging for forgiveness… What about now?
Her reflection eyed her angrily and she moved in closer, compelled to gaze steadily into her own eyes. There was such power in them. Such life yet…The mirrored stare continued to bore into her own until she found she could not look away again; even as the light lifted into morning and dust motes began to dance in the air…She gazed at the image before her, swaying, unable to move…How beautiful we are…
Transfixed she continued to stare into the mirror even as her face began, very slightly, to change. Her heart picked up a beat…the lips were picking up at the corners…as if by an invisible puppeteer…and then without any warning the face of another woman appeared…And rushed towards her with great speed, flying out of the mirror. Magda gasped and stepped back, still mesmerised by the image, and still unable to look away.
A rasping, guttural voice bellowed into the room. “God doesn’t love you, you low-down bitch-whore. God hates you. God has forsaken you. You bedded men twice your age. God detests you. He hates sluts and he hates meddling witches. And you are both.”
Shock paralysed her.
The eyes in the mirror now sparkled feverishly. This was an illusion. Hunger and tiredness made it so. She spat out the words with scorn. “Who the fuck are you?”
The voice changed instantly, to that of a kindly female. “I am your friend, Magda. I’m the one who’s here for you.”
“What’s your name?”
“Lilith.”
“Who are you and what do you want?”
“Lucifer’s bride. Lucifer is the only one who is here for you – the only one who will help you now.”
Magda sneered at the reflection. “You are a fantasy. A lie. A delusion. A dream…a–”
The temperature plummeted to ice and Magda screamed.
“Come on then, Lucifer,” she shouted into the mirror. “Take me as your witch and give me what I want. If you’re here for me then show yourself. I am not afraid of you. I will dance with you and fuck with you because my life is over, anyway. Just give me what I want. What I need. Because God is going to let me and my child die. It seems He has forsaken us so where are you? This is just a fucking dream…you are nothing, not even real.”
Her voice echoed around the freezing room.
“Are you here? I bet you’re not, you miserable fucker.”
A tiny movement, a glint in the glass, caused her to glance down for a fragment of a second. Someone was here. Right in this room. About to climb the stairs.
She stood absolutely motionless. Watching the spot. Listening. No, there was nothing – how odd. Her gaze flicked back up to the reflection.
What in hell’s name is this? What kind of nightmare am I in?
She leaned forwards; then recoiled in disbelief. A shard of ice passed through her. These were not her eyes anymore. An empty stare of blind whiteness looked back at her.
“I’m here now, Magda,” said a deep male voice. “God has gone.”
***
She woke with a kick to the heart. It was dark – a glitteringly, cold night studded with stars. Tree-shaped shadows swayed and bounced along the walls and the door was wide open.
Still half-dreaming, Magda struggled to make sense of where she was, breathing in the damp air that cloyed sweetly with the aroma of wet earth and burning wood. Her pounding forehead was scorching to the touch and clammy with sweat. Slightly dizzy she tried to stand but found it impossible, such was the pressure inside her head and the heaviness of her limbs. How long had she been asleep? It had been morning just a moment ago, and there had been such strange dreams. Again she tried to stand, this time noticing the scratched circle she was sitting in the middle of, the remnants of the beeswax candle, which had burned down to a stub, and the line of footprints leading to and from the kitchen door. Small prints made with bare feet. She examined her soles. Filthy. Stared at her fingers. Stained with juice.
What dark tricks were these?
Flickers of the troubled dream she had woken from flashed back disjointedly, scattering around the edges of her mind and already fading fast. A woman’s deathly stillness…an ebbing flow of dark liquid oozing onto white sheets…a feeling of watching this from the corner of the room, a glass or a mirror…willing it to happen…
Almost, she thought, kneeling up and rocking with the unbearable pain in her head – almost as if she had dreamt a death wish.
***
Chapter Fifteen
Jasmine Cottage
September, 2016
The darkness took her by surprise. It seemed the long days of summer would last forever, then whoosh – suddenly it was autumn and evenings were closing in. Becky switched off the laptop and heaved herself up from the sofa. Ouch and ouch. This pregnancy business wasn’t funny. Holding onto Molly with one hand, she pushed herself upright with the other. And still two months to go.
It might be an idea to take the holiday she was due before maternity leave because at this age, describing it as being weighted down with a sack of sand while wading through water would not be exaggerating. And it was only eight-thirty. She couldn’t go to bed at this time. Could she? Oh hell, why not?
In the small kitchen, still warm from the range, she leaned o
ver the sink to close the window, having one last scout round for Louie in the hope he might be trotting up the path, meowing urgently with his tail held high. It seemed so wrong without him. You could, she thought, feel his absence in a cut-out cat shape. He had been content here, stretching out on the sun-baked terrace or coiling round her legs when she cooked; bursting crazily up and down the stairs with his ears back when the mood took him. More like a dog than a cat, Cal said, the way he followed you round the house and slumped next to you when you were reading. Sometimes he even put a paw on your arm. Yes, it had felt more of a home with him in it. She frowned. Hadn’t he disappeared the same night Lilith appeared in the mirror?
Oh, don’t be ridiculous…Well, he had…
She allowed herself a wry smile – since when had she taken to arguing with herself? It was almost a shame to close the window, actually. Wild honeysuckle mixed with old English roses scented the evening air with sweetness. Even the sheets smelled fragrant when they’d dried outside. Simple pleasures, but oh, how wonderful to find happiness in them. It was such a shame Cal was working again tonight. He’d been sent here there and everywhere recently, even to other counties; only to arrive and be told he’d not been asked for. Oh well, like he said, all she had to do was keep safe and hold the fort when he wasn’t here.
Why she had such a feeling of disquiet, as if something was going to happen, she really couldn’t say. It was spooky, though. And whatever it was seemed to shadow her – as she climbed the creaking, wooden staircase, washed in the bathroom, brushed her hair, padded across the landing…
As always in the bedroom, she kept both the window and the curtains open: there was no one outside here on the moors, and the shining harvest moon was a stunning sight. It seemed too large to be suspended in the sky like that – much more dominant than at other times of the year - the wisps of yellowy-grey cloud drifting across it somehow quite haunting. The barn owls were out hunting again too – savage screeches piercing the night air.
Magda: A Darkly Disturbing Occult Horror Trilogy - Book 3 Page 10
