The Spook's Tale: And Other Horrors

by Joseph Delaney

  The spook closed his eyes, deep in thought, and said nothing for several minutes. The only sound was the shovels cutting into the soft earth. I was very much aware of the passage of time. Sunset was drawing closer with every breath I took.

  At last the spook looked at me and nodded as if he’d just arrived at an important decision. “We could go to the cottage together in full knowledge of what we face. There’s a chance that I might take the witch by surprise and bind her, although there’s the boggart to deal with as well. Not only that, but we’d be going into the witch’s territory. If she’s lived in that cottage for some time, it could be full of traps and dark magic spells.

  “No,” he went on, his jaw suddenly firming with resolve. “Let her come to us. Let her face what we’ve prepared. Sorry, lads!” he called out to the two men. “That pit won’t do now. I’m afraid we’re going to have to start all over again elsewhere …”

  The two men rested their arms on their shovels and glared at us, their expressions a mixture of annoyance and disbelief.

  ”Cheer up!” called the spook. “I’ll be paying you extra for your trouble. But we need to get a move on. Do you know Demdike Tower?”

  “Aye,” the larger of the two men replied. “Nothing but a ruin, though. Place to keep well away from after dark, Mr. Horrocks, that’s for sure!”

  “You’ll be safe enough with me,” said the spook. “And what lingers there couldn’t hurt you anyway. But we need to work fast. The boggart we’re out to trap will be there soon after the sun sets, so follow me as quick as you can!”

  With those words he set off at a furious pace. I followed at his heels and glanced back to see that the two men were throwing their shovels onto the cart.

  “Why will the boggart go to Demdike Tower?” I asked.

  “You can’t be that wet behind the ears! Think about it, boy. Why do you think it’ll go there?”

  Suddenly it dawned on me. “Because I’ll be there.”

  “Aye, lad. You’ll be the bait.”

  CHAPTER IV

  The Blood Dish

  WE reached the tower late in the afternoon. It was a crumbling ab an-doned ruin, part of a larger fortification that had long since been leveled by time and the elements. Only a few half-buried stones marked the boundaries of what had once been a formidable castle. Looking up at it, I remembered what the riggers had said.

  “What was that about the tower?” I asked the spook. “You said something lingers there. Is it haunted?”

  “After a fashion—but only by a ghast, which is just what’s left after a spirit has gone on to the light. It’s the bad part of it, the baggage the soul had to leave behind to be free of this world. It’s nothing to worry about as long as you don’t show fear. You see, that’s what ghasts feed on, just like boggarts. It makes them more powerful. But what’s a ghast when we’ve a malevolent witch and a bone breaker to face? That’s the least of our worries!”

  To my surprise, the spook walked past the tower and headed for the sloping wood just beyond it, where I could hear the sound of water rushing over stones.

  Soon, picking our way through the trees, we were walking downstream beside a torrent of foaming water, a small river rather than a stream, the noise growing louder with every step we took. We left the bank and descended a steep, rocky path to emerge on the edge of a large pool into which a wide waterfall dropped with considerable force.

  The spook pointed at the curtain of water. “That’s just about the best chance you’ve got, boy,” he told me. “Creatures of the dark find it very difficult to cross running water. For example, witches can’t ford a flowing stream or a river. The same applies to boggarts. Behind that waterfall, there’s a small recess in the rock, just big enough for you to crouch inside. You should be safe enough there, so long as the water doesn’t dry up.” He looked up at the torrent.

  “It rained hard earlier,” he continued. “Let’s just hope it rained sufficiently to fill those hills with enough to last until well after dark. On some days that waterfall is reduced to little more than a trickle. If that were to happen at the wrong moment …”

  He didn’t need to finish his sentence. I could already imagine the water ceasing to flow, the barrier upon which my life depended failing, and the savage bone-breaker boggart racing toward me. The image of the apprentice without his hand flashed into my mind. I tried to shut it out but kept seeing the red stump of his wrist and the look of horror on his dead face. I also turned to look at the waterfall and whispered a silent prayer.

  We walked back up to meet the riggers, who were already unloading the stone from their cart. Under the spook’s direction, we carried it down through the trees. It was really heavy, and it took all four of us to manage it. That done, there was a second trip to bring down the riggers’ tools and other equipment, including a couple of heavy sacks. The spook then showed them where to dig a new pit. It was close to the waterfall, under the branch of a mature rowan tree.

  With only a couple of hours left to get everything prepared before dark, the riggers set to work with a vengeance and finished the pit with fifteen minutes to spare. They were sweating a lot, and I suddenly realized that it wasn’t just with exertion. They were nervous, but not half as afraid as I was. After all, the boggart was coming for me, not them.

  Once the pit had been dug, the riggers went back up to their wagon, this time returning with a large barrel, which they rolled down through the trees. When opened, it proved to be half full of a disgustingly smelly, sticky mixture.

  “It’s just bone glue, boy,” the spook told me. “Now we have to mix salt and iron into it—”

  “Salt and iron?” I interrupted. “What do you use that for?”

  “Salt burns a boggart; iron bleeds away its power. The trick is to mix those two substances into this glue and coat the inside of the pit with it to keep the boggart inside, not forgetting the lid. You lure the boggart into the pit, then down comes the stone lid, and it’s trapped. Artificially bound, we call it.”

  The spook poured half a sack of iron filings into the glue and began to stir it with a big stick. While he was working, the two riggers climbed up into the tree and fastened a block and tackle to the branch. I’d seen one used at the local mill to lift heavy flour sacks. After the iron was dispersed, the spook told me to pour the half sack of salt in slowly while he gave the mixture another thorough stirring. That done, he used a brush to coat the inside of the pit with it.

  “Can’t afford to miss the tiniest bit, boy,” he told me as he worked, “or the boggart will eventually escape!”

  I looked up uneasily at the sky and the low clouds. Already the light was beginning to go. The sun couldn’t be that far from the horizon by now. I hoped the spook could see what he was doing down there in the gloom of the pit and was sealing it properly.

  By now the riggers had hoisted the stone. The chain from the block had a hook at the end, and this fitted through a ring in the center of that heavy stone lid so that it was suspended directly above the pit. The spook quickly coated the underside, put down the brush, took something else out of his bag, and polished it on his sleeve. It was a metal dish with three small holes in it, close to the rim.

  “This is what we call a bait dish, boy. Or sometimes a blood dish. And now we need the blood… . There’s no easy way to break this to you—I need some of your blood. We’ll fill the dish with it, then lower it down into the pit. When the boggart arrives, it’ll make straight for you, hoping to get hold of your bones, but the waterfall should stop it. Denied the bones it wants, it’ll sniff out your blood—which is the next best thing—then go straight down into the pit after it. While it’s drinking, we’ll lower the stone into position, and the job’s complete. So roll up your sleeve, boy. Can’t say it won’t hurt, but it’s got to be done.”

  So saying, he pulled a knife from his bag and tested the blade against his thumb. The lightest of touches produced a thin line of blood. It was sharp, all right.

  “Kneel down,” he
commanded, “and hold your arm over the dish.”

  Very nervously I did as I was told, and for the second time that day someone approached me with a knife. But whereas the witch only cut off a lock of my hair, the spook made a cut to the inner part of my arm, just below the elbow. It hurt and I flinched, closing my eyes. When I opened them again, the blood was dripping into the dish.

  “That should do,” the spook said at last. “Raise your arm and press the palm of your other hand hard against the cut. That’ll stop the bleeding.”

  I did as I was told, watching him work to distract myself from the stinging of the cut. He now produced from his bag a long chain with three smaller ones at the end, each furnished with a tiny hook. Carefully he inserted each hook into the holes in the edge of the dish and lowered it into the pit. Once it was at the bottom, he relaxed the chain and gave a sort of flick, and the hooks came free without spilling even a drop of my blood. I could see that it took skill to do that—he must have practiced for a long time.

  Suddenly there was a bloodcurdling scream from the direction of the tower above. I shivered and locked eyes with the spook. He nodded to signify that he’d heard it too, but the two riggers just carried on making their preparations, oblivious to the sound.

  “That’s the ghast I was telling you about,” the spook explained. “The lord who once ruled that castle on the hill had a beautiful daughter called Miriam. She was young and foolish and fell in love with a poor forester without thinking of the consequences for them both. The boy was hunted down and killed by the savage dogs her father employed to hunt deer. When she found out, Miriam threw herself from the highest window of the tower to her death on the rocks below.”

  He shook his head and sighed wearily. “Her spirit was trapped in that tower, suffering over and over again the anguish of bereavement and the fear and pain of her own death. One of my very first tasks after completing my apprenticeship was to send that poor girl’s spirit to the light. Other spooks had tried and failed, but I persevered and finally managed to talk some sense into her—though she left that poor tormented fragment behind. That’s her ghast that you just heard cry out. As she fell, she screamed, and now the ghast relives that moment over and over again. Sometimes the sound is so strong that even ordinary folk like our two riggers hear it. That’s why the ruined tower is avoided, especially after dark.

  “Right, there’s no time to waste!” he finished, looking at me. “We need to get you into position before dark. Don’t worry. The recess is small, but it’s comfortable enough. Just don’t go to sleep and fall down the waterfall!”

  I didn’t know whether his last remark was meant to be a joke—there was little chance of me falling asleep when a dangerous boggart was about to arrive at any moment.

  The spook led me closer to the waterfall and pointed. “There’s a narrow ledge just inside. Work your way along until you come to the recess. There are plenty of handholds, but be careful. It’ll be slippery.”

  I held my breath, then stepped through the curtain of water onto the stone ledge. The water was icy cold and made me gasp, but I was through it in a second. The spook was right about the ledge being narrow; right, too, about it being slippery. So facing toward the rock face and holding on to it where I could, I began to inch slowly along to my right. I shut out all thoughts of the drop behind me and muttered a few prayers to keep me calm. Moments later, to my relief, I reached the recess in the rock. It was big enough to sit in, and when I drew my knees up to my chest, my boots were just clear of the falling water. It was cold and damp, and I hoped I wouldn’t have to spend the whole night there. But anything was better than being at the mercy of the boggart.

  I didn’t have to wait long. It grew darker and darker, and by the end of twenty minutes it was difficult to see my hand in front of my face. Sounds became significant then. Someone coughed in the distance from the direction of the pit. Moments later, I heard the screech of an owl, followed almost immediately by the scream of the ghast. The most important noise of all was the comforting one of that screen of water falling into the pool below. But it wasn’t long before I began to worry. Was the noise lessening? If so, how long before it became just a trickle and gave no protection at all?

  Then I heard a faint scream in the distance. At first I thought it was the ghast again, but it grew steadily louder; added to this was what sounded like a ferocious wind gathering speed—one so powerful that it could strip the summer leaves off trees or rasp the flesh from living bones. And then the sound took on another dimension, as if a third note had been added to harmonize with the other two. This was the sort of rumbling growl that a very big and dangerous animal might make as it rushed toward its prey … rushed toward me! I realized then that this was the boggart.

  Louder and louder grew the three sounds; nearer and nearer came the boggart—until suddenly it was right in front of the waterfall, the noise so loud that I wanted to put my hands over my ears. But I didn’t. I kept perfectly still, too scared to even twitch an eyebrow. All I could see was a sort of red glow shining through the water, but I knew the terrible creature was there, threatening me: It sounded now as if huge teeth were being gnashed and ground together, hardly more than an arm’s length away. But for that protective curtain of water it would already have snatched my bones. I would be dead like the spook’s poor apprentice.

  I don’t know how long it waited there. The glow kept brightening and fading and moving from side to side as if it were searching for a gap in the curtain of water. This was the scariest moment of all: I remembered the spook had told me that the inside of the pit had to be coated thoroughly because a boggart could escape through the narrowest of openings. Would it find one in the waterfall? I wondered, my heart pounding in my chest.

  Its search lasted just a few minutes, though it seemed a lot longer. Then, to my relief, it was gone. Still I sat rigid, not daring to move until at last I heard the sudden whir of chains. The boggart must be in the pit, attracted by my blood in the bait dish, and the riggers were lowering the stone to trap it inside.

  Finally I heard a thud and guessed that it must be the stone dropping onto the rim of the pit, hitting the ground. Then, at last, the spook called out to me.

  “Right, boy, the boggart’s safe and sound. Out you come!”

  Weak with relief, I did as I was told, moving carefully back along the slippery ledge and ducking out through the cold waterfall again. The spook had lit a lantern and was sitting beside it on the stone lid of the boggart pit, which was now safely in position. The boggart was bound. My nightmare was over at last.

  “It all went according to plan,” said the spook. “Did you hear the boggart?”

  “Aye, I heard it approach. I could see it, too, glowing red through the waterfall.”

  “That it did, boy. You’re a seventh son of a seventh son, all right. It was red because it had fed earlier in the day—they take blood if they can’t get their favorite bones. But when it attacked, those two riggers wouldn’t have seen or heard a thing. Good job, too, or they’d have run a mile and we’d never have gotten the stone into place. I think they heard it slurping your blood down in the pit, though. One of them started to moan with fear, and the other’s hands were shaking so much he could hardly manipulate the chain! Well, sit yourself down, boy. It’s not over yet.”

  I sat down next to him on the stone. What did he mean, it wasn’t over yet? I wondered. But I said nothing for a while. The riggers were still busy taking the block and tackle down from the rowan branch and collecting their tools together.

  “We’ll be off now, Mr. Horrocks,” the taller one said, holding up a lantern and touching the rim of his cap in respect.

  “You did a good job, lads, so get you gone,” said the spook. “There’s a witch heading this way from the northwest, so I’d take any direction but that.”

  With those words he counted money into the man’s palm in payment for the work done, and both riggers set off up the slope as if the Devil himself were chasing them. When
they’d left, the spook patted me on the shoulder. “You’ve been brave and sensible so far, boy. So I’m going to be honest with you again and tell you what’s likely to happen. To start with, there’s no way you can go to Houghton until all this is finally sorted out. You see, the witch still has that lock of your hair… .”

  With all the danger and excitement, I’d forgotten all about the witch. Suddenly I began to feel scared again. I’d disobeyed her, and telling the spook the truth had led to her boggart being trapped in the pit. She’d want vengeance for that.

  “Using it,” the spook continued, “she can do you serious mischief, so we have to get it back and destroy it— otherwise you’ll never be safe. And for now the best place you can be is by my side. Understand?”

  I nodded nervously and peered out into the darkness beyond the circle of light cast by the lantern. “Will she come here?” I asked.

  “That’s what I believe, boy, but hopefully not before dawn. She’ll be easier to deal with in daylight. You see, she’ll come to find out what’s happened to the boggart. Once she sees it’s bound, the witch will try to free it. That will give me a chance to sort her out once and for all. I’ll bind her with my silver chain and carry her back to my garden at Chipenden. She’ll spend the rest of her life bound in a pit, and the County will be a much safer place!”

  He made it sound easy, but we spent a long and uncomfortable night waiting for the witch. I didn’t sleep at all, and neither did the spook. Dawn came and the morning drew on. Once it was past noon and into early afternoon, the spook began to pace up and down, looking increasingly concerned.

  Finally he turned to face me. “Looks like I was wrong, boy. We’re dealing with a particularly crafty witch. She must have worked out that I’ve bound her boggart and that I’m planning to trap her. So she won’t come here. No, I’m afraid we’re going to have to seek her out.”

  “But won’t that mean going into her cottage? You said there’d be lots of dark magic traps and snares there!”