Peachy light flooded from the hall through the red front door as I pulled into the driveway behind the shop and the comforting waft of dinner welcomed me home.
“Cat, is that you? I thought you would be ravenous so I have made lasagne,” Dinah called from the kitchen.
I slumped heavily into the chair and devoured my dinner. It filled me with a warm glow, and I felt the tense and tired muscles in my body loosen.
“So…how was your day?” Dinah watched me eagerly.
I remembered with horror all the weird things that had happened. “I have no idea why I took the job. It was awful. I can’t go back. I think it might be h…” Saying the word out loud would either sound ridiculous or make the ghosts feel real. I changed my mind about telling Dinah everything. “The house is creepy. It felt like…” I was shaking. “The atmosphere was odd. This is going to sound weird, but it almost felt like the walls had a pulse, like as if the house was alive. It kept changing from hot to cold and back to hot…”
Dinah anxiously pressed her cool hand to my forehead. “I hope you are not coming down with the flu. You are trembling.” Her face turned to a calm smile, and she stroked my hair. “You feel fine now. I’ll make you a hot toddy before bed.”
I smiled gratefully at Dinah. I had only known her two years, but she was my only friend when I had no one. We were complete opposites. She was like the sunshine. She made people feel happy just by her presence. I was the stormy cloud from which people choose to run.
“In that house, I felt like there was someone there with me. I even thought I saw someone flash past the mirror. Then I heard a crash from the kitchen; the ghost turned out to be a huge ginger cat knocking over the bucket.” I laughed nervously at how scared I was, but I was still shaken. Dinah dabbed the corner of her mouth with her napkin.
“I was talking to a lady at the salon today—you know her, Mrs Thompson, who has a shampoo and set every Monday. Well…she knew a little about that village. She said there was an enormous fire at one of the houses. Hunter’s House, I think. It was two years ago. It gutted the place. As far as anyone knew, nobody was inside. She said the village is an odd place, very cliquey. The same families have been living there for years; all a bit interbred I suppose.”
I laughed at Dinah’s retro conclusions, installed from a lifetime spent with pensioners in a hair salon.
“Sounds like the one. It’s called Hunter’s Moon though. If you hear anything else, can you let me know? I would be interested to find out about the history of the house.” I copied out the address, and Dinah popped it into her handbag. Full of food and happier, I offered to help Dinah clean up.
“No, you have done enough cleaning today. Have a warm bubbly bath with some lavender oil and get to bed early. You look exhausted.”
I settled into bed and drew the shabby black book from my bag. I probably shouldn’t have taken it home, but in a rash moment, I had taken it. And it had thrown itself at me. I opened the book to the first page which was faded to a nicotine yellow, with a musty, smoky smell. Handwritten in old-fashioned ink, it said: 1940 J. Mason.
Before I could read further, my phone buzzed with a text alert. It was Annie. She explained she was going to be delayed in London and wouldn’t make it back for the weekend. The party of guests wouldn’t be arriving for another few weeks, but Joab would be there if I needed anything.
A feeling of dread crept over me. I didn’t think I could muster the courage to go back to the scary house again. What if there was a ghost ready to terrorise me? Or worse, more difficult conversations with Joab? My hand hovered over the phone. I quickly typed a message giving some lame reasons for quitting. I deleted it. To escape the thought, I turned back to the book. I squinted and made out a scrawled, barely legible title: Book of Shadows. I realised the book was a diary or an account of something. Very gently, I turned the crispy page which felt like it could crumble at any minute. With difficulty, I read the first entry and slipped into the world of the writer.
Joe’s journal
May Day 1940
“It was dusk on Beltane eve when we did the long walk from the dock area of Southampton to the countryside, a few miles north, to celebrate May Day with the Forest Coven of witches at Toothill. I was looking forward to the party, the wine and a dalliance in the woods with Anne.
The air was cleaner away from the dust, rubble and ruin of the bombed city. The meeting hut was well hidden within the woodland on Mountbatten’s estate. He is a newly converted occultist and has granted us the land, provided we can ensure his crops never fail. A tall order, but we can practise our rituals safely without getting caught and sent to prison.”
Joe wrote as if witches were real! I gasped and slammed the book shut, afraid of intruding into such a strange, secret world.
CHAPTER 6
Present day
I settled into my job, the house and its ghostly happenings. Strange things often occurred. The mirrors were the most peculiar. They rattled and banged as if something was knocking to get into the house. I often scrubbed at handprints, only to realise they appeared to be on the inside of the glass. The ghost could scare me as much as it liked; for all people wondered at my strangeness, my blankness, I knew that I was stubborn. That there was a strength inside of me. I wouldn’t let it frighten me out of making some money. And Dinah explained that ghosts were just energy, tiny fragments of a person’s soul trapped in a house. They couldn’t hurt me. At least that is what I kept reminding myself.
I found ways to cope with my fear. Headphones masked the noises and I threw towels over the mirrors I couldn’t avoid. I was grateful of Joab’s company, even though I still found him annoying. The ghosts seemed to behave when he was in the room. He appeared oblivious to any hauntings so I dared not ask him in case he thought I was insane.
I soon began to tolerate him and then I warmed to him. We shared awkward chats in the kitchen over coffee during the first week which then became routine. Two weeks later, I finished college for the summer break and was able to spend more time working at the house. I actually looked forward to our talks about his travels and his work. He often tried to coax information from me, but the story of my life at the salon couldn’t compare to his, and I wasn’t ready to disclose my true history or rather lack of it. Life became a rhythm.
One evening, I arrived home to Dinah’s empty house, still a hundred times more welcoming than the mansion house. I tried watching TV but couldn’t concentrate and turned it off.
After picking up the book I had borrowed from the house, I peered at the photograph, which I had tucked back inside the pages. The image had lost clarity over time but I could make out four men. There was an older, distinguished man with a moustache, wearing a uniform of some description, and another younger man also in uniform. He clearly didn’t want to be photographed. His face was turned away from the camera, and was further obscured by a hand clutching a newspaper. A younger, glamourous woman wore a pale dress and rested a jewelled-hand on the man’s shoulder. Next to her stood a young, handsome soldier in what I guessed was a Royal Air Force uniform as it had a badge with some wings on it. He stood proudly next to another young man in a suit. The suited man’s surprised expression insinuated the photograph was not planned. Next to him was a girl who was moving out of the shot. The sepia tones of the photo disguised her colouring, but her hair was curled into vintage-style waves which made her look like an old-fashioned film star.
I wondered what was happening in the picture. Who were these people? Where was it taken? As I stared at the image, a strange sense of emotion seeped through me, a feeling of loss. I slipped the newspaper cutting back into the book. I wondered if the book would reveal any clues about the people in the picture. At first I hesitated—after all, it was the secret and very personal journal of a witch! Was I intruding into a world I shouldn’t enter? My curiosity overruled common sense. I began to read.
“Beltane night was one to remember; I was chosen to be Winter King. What an honour! Anne was my M
ay Queen, and at dawn, I chased her through the woods. I finally took a tumble in the blue bells and wild garlic with Anne. Officially, I am no longer a virgin…”
I gasped and scanned the rest of the page to reveal all the details of the boy’s first sexual encounter.
Closing the book, I sank into bed after my bath; closed my eyes; tried to relax my mind. Quite unexpectedly and annoyingly, Joab crept into my thoughts with his cocky smile, eyes twinkling, laughing at me. I growled to myself and slid under the covers. My stomach lurched. I was excited about seeing him again, but there was a nagging warning of caution.
Tired, but restless, I found I couldn’t sleep. I practised relaxation techniques described in the salon magazines. I imagined trickling streams, sun shining through beech leaves in woodland on a spring day, bluebells, ferns and mossy grass. I began to
doze.
I was no longer in my bedroom. I drifted into a dream. There was a smouldering bonfire and a screech of laughter. An old-fashioned song crackled through a gramophone. I drifted further into another world. I was dreaming.
1940
Joe took a last Woodbine cigarette from the crumpled packet. He had saved it for this moment. He lit it and inhaled deeply. The smoke snaked through the soft dawn light to the blossom in the branches above. Anne was May Queen, the Maiden, and he was her Winter King. Her garland crown and her cardigan along with his jacket were scattered some yards from the tree. A stag crown hung coquettishly on a branch as if to claim the territory. He recalled the hunt through the woods, hazy with beer and Beltane wine. Her girlish giggles teased him as she darted between the trees. The delicious moment she fell on a bed of bluebells, and she pulled Joe towards her eager for his kiss.
Anne looked at him with an expectant half smile. He thought maybe he did love her, but at seventeen, he wasn’t sure what he should feel. Marriage felt final and everlasting. It meant doing a day’s hard graft at the docks, a beer in the local then heading home to supper. It meant a litter of dirty-faced kids and all Anne’s softness replaced with the hard grimace that comes from a gruelling day of making do and scrubbing. It felt like the end of his dreams of pilot heroics. “I love you, Anne, but we are too young to marry. What of our dreams? Don’t you still want to sing? I want to pilot a Spitfire if it’s the last thing I do.”
“My mother said those dreams are pie in the sky. Besides, the war will be over not long after the Lammas night ritual. There will be no need for you to join up.” The girl stood, straightened her stockings and angrily thrust her arms into a cardigan and marched away. Joe scrambled to his feet and chased her…
Present
I awoke as morning sunshine beamed onto my face. My dream was still vivid. I wondered if my imagination had brought life to Joe’s journal. With a stretch, I rolled out of bed. I grabbed yesterday’s discarded clothes. The repugnant smell of bleach, dust and sweat clung to my sweat shirt and joggers. I searched for something to wear that was less ugly than my usual scruffy, sports look and slipped on a pair of skinny jeans and a shirt. Dinah had chosen them for me during a shopping trip some months ago in a bid to bring out ‘some femininity’ in me. She was desperate for me to find a boyfriend or even make some friends of my own age and thought a makeover was the answer. I pulled the tags off and awkwardly angled my body to see if my bottom was as exposed as it felt. While I contorted myself to get the best possible view, Dinah pushed the door open, carrying a mug of tea. She smiled with pride.
“Oh, Cat, you are wearing the outfit we bought together. You look lovely. Soon we will get you into a dress!”
I blushed. “My other clothes are dirty and this was all I could find. Does my bum look weird? I can’t tell.”
Dinah laughed. “If only I had a figure like you, please…you look great. Breakfast is on the table.”
I pushed the book into my bag and headed to the kitchen. Dinah was cutting around a pink grapefruit with her special knife as I pulled my chair up. I grabbed a piece of toast and smothered it with marmite.
“Cat, have you met anyone at the house?” Dinah’s eyes sparkled curiously.
I cursed my pale skin as it flashed red again. “Um, no, well, there was Annie of course. You know I told you at the interview. Nice lady.”
Dinah’s easy-to-read face slipped into disappointment. “I am sorry, Cat. I am being much too nosey…just with the effort you have made with your clothes?”
I cringed. It was obvious after all. “I am only wearing jeans. You wear jeans all the time, nothing special. I told you my clothes were dirty.”
Dinah appeared to accept defeat and began gouging segments of grapefruit from the skin.
“Have you found out anything more about the house?” I asked in a bid to divert Dinah’s line of enquiry.
“Oh yes. Apparently the occupants of the house before the fire were a bit odd, well…culty.”
“Culty?” I questioned Dinah.
“You know, a cult, a group of people with strange ideas. Well, I think it is nonsense, but the rumours suggested they were witches.” Dinah’s eyes shone, obviously delighted by the drama. “Some of them were family, an old family from Southampton and Romsey, but most were from the docks. A client at the salon remembered rumours…she heard there were witches living in the house. They were part of a group, or a coven—well, I think that’s what they call a group of them—and they were part of the coven of New Forest Witches. There was a war time story about a group of witches who met in the forest and performed magic to fend off an attack from Hitler.”
I gasped, scared there could be some truth in the rumour.
“When I walked around the village, I came across a scarecrow displaying a warning about keeping evil out of the village. Maybe there is some truth in it.” I laughed nervously, remembering the Mandy Lion and its creepy grin.
“If you are going back to that place, maybe you should tuck some garlic in your pocket.” Dinah laughed, throwing a bulb at me playfully.
I smiled. “I don’t think garlic works on witches. You’re thinking of vampires!”
“Oh yes, anyway you won’t need garlic with your Marmite breath!” Dinah teased me, prompting me to improve it with mouthwash before work.
The rain hammered on my car roof and wriggled its way through my window, seeping into my jeans. I opened the door into a bush, which shook more cold water onto my drenched leg. Putting my bag over my head, I ran to the door. I searched through my bag for the key, cringing as I grabbed an old apple core and a squashed unidentifiable piece of fruit. I was getting wetter by the second before I realised the key was in the car.
I darted back through the rain. The car door refused to open as I fumbled with the lock. Eventually it gave way as if the door was waiting until I got as soaked as possible before letting me in. Then I rushed to the front door, rammed the key in the lock and thrust the door open. My hair was stuck to my face and neck. I clawed sodden strands away from my eyes to see where I was going.
Joab was standing at the bottom of the stairs. A smile escaped before I could set my neutral mask. The corner of his mouth twitched into a smile too, I was surprised to see evidence of a slight blush. He was wearing boxers and an old T-shirt with a robe thrown over the top. His dark hair was ruffled after sleep. He was clutching a mug. “I have just got up,” he stammered. There was definitely a hint of embarrassment in his usually confident manner. “I was about to make another coffee. Want one?” he asked, as his eyes subtly darted up and down my dripping body. “Hey, you should probably get changed. Can’t have you going down with the flu or I’ll have to clean the place.”
That smirk! Ugh, it really annoyed me.
“I’ll dry off while I work,” I retorted, while trying to manoeuvre my uncomfortable wet legs and walk normally, despite being trapped in heavy, clinging denim.
He smiled again. “Look, I’ll grab something from upstairs. I’ve got to get changed anyway. I can’t keep distracting you from your work with my half-naked state.”
I laughed sarcastical
ly then blushed as I accidently imagined him naked.
“Here, have this,” he said, throwing off his robe and pulling the T-shirt over his head. It was my turn to flash red as my jaw dropped slightly at the sight of his near nakedness. His torso was almost perfect. “I’ll grab you some jogging bottoms or something. That’s the kind of thing you normally wear, isn’t it?”
I wasn’t sure if this remark was a criticism, but denim sticking to my leg was not pleasant.
After I changed, I sought refuge in my cleaning cupboard. I ran down the steps to the basement and pulled open the door. The door shut behind me. Thick, hot air smothered me again. I gasped, trying to catch my breath, desperately trying to fill my lungs, but the room was a vacuum, sucking any trace of oxygen from my body. My throat burned. “For God’s sake, not now,” I said. I felt the house was playing a cruel joke on me. Falling to my knees, I pulled the mop, brooms and bucket to a crash on the floor.
Caught in a strange vision, I saw flames dancing around the walls. White hands reached for me, and a female face with wild hair pushed through the flames, her lips miming desperately. I reached towards her, but it was too late, I was already falling. My head hit the concrete floor. Drifting above my own lifeless body, the room spinning, I was flying at enormous speed into a dark void. The darkness gave way to light, and just as in my dream the night before, I became a voyeur in another time.
June 1940
In the light of day, the hut in the woods looked nothing more than a shed. The lights and the smell of punch, the hawthorn and ribbons were gone, the magic as dead as the pile of black embers left by the Beltane fire. Joe glanced at the tree where he had been with Anne not so long ago. He smiled at the memory, her flimsy yellow dress and hazy eyes. She was a catch and she didn’t hang around. She was stepping out with some yank called Dick now. Appropriately named, Joe thought.
Joe pushed open the door longing for a beer and a cigarette. He had a few strands of rolling tobacco, and by the looks of the serious faces inside the hut, beer was off the menu. The old man Granville was a strange-looking, with tufty white hair and eyes like a crow. He turned and his tiny black eyes seemed to bore deep into Joe’s soul. Joe shuddered. He heard that Granville was not as ancient as he looked, but was born deceptively old looking.
The Haunting of Violet Gray Page 3
