The Spook's Stories: Witches Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  How To Read Spook's Symbols

  Character Profiles

  Meg Skeleton

  Chapter 1: The Fight with the Abhuman

  Chapter 2: Harbouring a Witch

  Chapter 3: Just a Pussycat

  Dirty Dora

  Chapter 1: My Sabbaths

  Chapter 2: My Doom

  Chapter 3: My Revenge

  Grimalkin's Tale

  Alice and the Brain Guzzler

  Chapter 1: My Name is Alice Dean

  Chapter 2: A Witch You'll Always Be

  Chapter 3: Nanna Nuckle's Head

  Chapter 4: Brain Plugs In Apple Juice

  Chapter 5: Seven Big Handfuls

  The Banshee Witch

  Chapter 1: A Hard Lesson

  Chapter 2: The Shroud Washer

  Chapter 3: The Worme

  Chapter 4: The Celtic Assassin

  Chapter 5: The Banshee Cry

  About the Author

  The Wardstone Chronicles

  Also by Joseph Delaney

  Copyright

  About the Book

  WARNING: NOT TO BE READ AFTER DARK

  For years, the local spook has been keeping the county safe from ghosts and boggarts, but more especially from witches.

  And here are five dark and terrifying witch stories from the spook's own collection.

  There are child-eating witches, witch assassins, Celtic witches, dead witches, and witches so beautiful they can break a man's heart.

  These stories will chill your blood and frighten you to your very bones. Just remember not to read them after dark.

  To Marie

  How To Read Spook's Symbols

  CHARACTER PROFILES

  Tom

  Thomas Ward is the seventh son of a seventh son. This means he was born with certain gifts – gifts that make him perfect for the role of the Spook’s apprentice. He can see and hear the dead and he is a natural enemy of the dark. But that doesn’t stop Tom getting scared, and he is going to need all his courage if he is to succeed where twenty-nine others have failed.

  The Spook

  The Spook is an unmistakable figure. He’s tall, and rather fierce-looking. He wears a long black cloak and hood, and always carries a staff and a silver chain. Like his apprentice, Tom, he is left-handed, and is a seventh son of a seventh son.

  For over sixty years he has protected the County from things that go bump in the night.

  Alice

  Tom can’t decide if Alice is good or evil. She terrifies the local village lads, is related to two of the most evil witch clans (the Malkins and the Deanes) and has been known to use dark magic. But she was trained as a witch against her will and has helped Tom out of some tight spots. She seems to be a loyal friend, but can she be trusted?

  Mam

  Tom’s mam always knew he would become the Spook’s apprentice. She called him her ‘gift to the County’. A loving mother and an expert on plants, medicine and childbirth, Mam was always a little different. Her origins in Greece were a mystery. In fact, there were quite a few mysterious things about Mam …

  The highest point in the county is marred by mystery.

  It is said that a man died there in a great storm, while binding an evü that threatened the whole world.

  Then the ice came again, and when it retreated, even the shapes of the hills and the names of the towns in the valleys changed.

  Now, at that highest point on the fells, no trace remains of what was done so long ago, beit its name has endured.

  They call it -

  The Wardstone.

  MEG

  SKELTON

  THIS IS A tale that must be told; a warning to those who might one day take my place. My name is John Gregory and I'm the local Spook; what now follows is the full and truthful account of my dealings with the witch Meg Skelton.

  FOR FIVE YEARS my master, Henry Horrocks, had trained me as a spook, teaching me how to deal with ghosts, boggarts, witches and all manner of creatures from the dark. Now my apprenticeship was completed and I was fully qualified, still living at my master's Chipenden house and working alongside him to make the County a safer place.

  Late in the autumn, an urgent message came from Arnside, to the north-west of the County, begging my old master and me to deal with an abhuman, a foul, monstrous creature that had brought terror to the district for far too long. Many families had suffered at its cruel hands and there had been many deaths and maimings.

  Henry Horrocks's health had been deteriorating for quite some time, and three days before the message arrived he'd taken to his bed.

  'You'll have to go on ahead, lad,' he told me, struggling for breath, his chest wheezing as he spoke. 'But take care - abhumans can be very strong. Keep it at bay as I've taught you, using your staff, then stab it through the forehead. If the job looks too dangerous, keep watch from a distance. As soon as I'm fit enough, I'll follow you north. Hopefully tomorrow…'

  With those words we parted, and carrying my staff and bag, I set off for Arnside. Had I been going to face a witch, I would have borrowed my master's silver chain, but there were doubts about its effectiveness against abhumans, which have varying levels of resistance towards such tools of our trade as rowan wood, salt and iron. No - a blade was the best way to deal with such a creature.

  I visited Arnside village and a few farms to gather as much information as possible concerning the nature of what I faced and where I would find it. What I heard did little to boost my confidence. The creature was immensely strong and had attacked a farmer only a week earlier, ripping his head from his shoulders while the terrified milkmaid watched from her hiding place in the barn. After killing her unfortunate employer, the abhuman drank his blood, then tore the raw flesh from his bones with its teeth. It had now made its home in a tower and usually went hunting for prey soon after midnight. People for miles around were living in fear; no home was safe.

  I came down into the forest at dusk. All the leaves had fallen and lay on the ground, rotten and brown. The tower was twice the height of the tallest trees, like a black demon finger pointing up at the grey County sky. A girl had been seen waving from its solitary window, frantically beckoning for aid. I'd been told that the creature had seized her for its own and now held her as its plaything, imprisoning her within those dank stone walls.

  First I made a fire and sat gazing into its flames while I gathered my courage. It would be better to wait for Henry Horrocks to arrive; two of us would have a far greater chance against the creature. But despite his assurances I had no confidence that he would join me. His condition had been steadily worsening rather than improving. Besides, the creature would probably kill again this very night. It was my duty as a spook to deal with it before then; my duty to the people of the County.

  Taking the whetstone from my bag, I sharpened the blade of my staff until my fingers could not touch its edge without yielding blood. Finally, just before midnight, I went to the tower and hammered out a challenge upon the wooden door with the base of my staff.

  The creature came forth brandishing a great club and roared out in anger. It was a foul thing dressed in the skins of animals, reeking of blood. Almost seven feet tall, with a chest like a barrel; it was a truly formidable opponent. I am a spook and trained to deal with creatures of the dark, and I was strong then and in my prime, but my courage faltered as it attacked me with a terrible fury.

  At first I retreated steadily, but I released the blade from its recess in my staff and waited for my chance to counter-attack. Jabbing repeatedly at the beast to keep it at bay, I whirled to the left in a r
apid spiral and drew it away from the tower into the trees. Twice that massive club smashed against tree trunks, missing my head by inches. Either blow would have shattered my skull like an eggshell.

  But now it was my turn to attack. I whacked the creature hard on the side of the head, a blow that would have felled a village blacksmith, but it didn't even stagger. Then I managed to spear it deeply in the right shoulder so that, within moments, blood started to run down its bare arm and splatter onto the grass. That brought it to a halt and we faced each other warily.

  As it bellowed in anger and prepared to attack again, I flicked my staff from my left hand to my right and drove it straight into the creature's forehead with all my strength. The blade went in deep and, with a gasp and then a terrible groan, the abhuman fell stone-dead at my feet.

  I paused to catch my breath, looking down at the creature. I had no regrets about taking its life, for it would have killed again and again and would never have been sated.

  It was then that the girl called out to me from the tower, her siren voice luring me up the stone steps. There, in the topmost room, I found her lying upon a bed of straw, bare-footed and bound fast with a long silver chain. With skin like milk and long fair hair, she was by far the prettiest woman that I had ever set eyes on. She told me that her name was Meg and pleaded to be released from the chain; her voice was so persuasive that my reason fled and the world spun about me.

  No sooner had I unbound her from the coils of the chain than she fastened her lips hard upon mine. And so sweet were her kisses that I almost swooned away in her arms. It was a night that was to change my life. My first night with Meg.

  I awoke to see sunlight streaming through the window, and spied the toes of Meg's shoes peeping out from under a chair in the corner of the room. They were pointy; pointy shoes. My heart sank within my chest. My master had warned me that pointy shoes were often a strong indication that the wearer might be a witch. Worse was to come, for as Meg dressed, I saw her back clearly for the first time and my blood froze cold within my veins. She was one of the lamia witches, and the mark of the serpent was upon her. Fair of face though she was, her spine was covered with green and yellow scales.

  'Witch!' I cried, reaching for the silver chain. 'You're a witch!'

  I harm nobody!' she cried. 'Only those who wish me harm!'

  'It's in your nature to practise deceit,' I said angrily.

  'Once a witch, always a witch - your kind are not even human…'

  I threw the chain that had previously bound her, and the long hours I'd spent casting against the practice post in the Chipenden garden paid off. The chain dropped over her head and shoulders, binding her fast so that she could neither walk, speak nor move her arms. Filled with anger at her deceit, I carried her, thus bound, back to Chipenden - where a terrible shock awaited me.

  To my sorrow and dismay, I found Henry Horrocks dead and cold in his bed. He had been a good master and eventually my friend and it grieved me sorely to lose him.

  Leaving the witch safely bound, I buried my master at the edge of the local churchyard. Although a spook is not permitted to be interred in holy ground, no doubt some priest might have been persuaded to pray over his body, but Henry Horrocks had already told me that he didn't want that. He had lived a blameless, hard-working life defending the County against the dark, and felt capable of finding his own way through the mists of Limbo to the light.

  That taken care of, it was time to deal with the witch. First I dug a pit for her in the eastern garden, and then had the local mason and blacksmith construct its lid, a stone rim with thirteen iron bars. Once she was in the pit, I would drag the lid into position.

  By now my anger had abated somewhat. I had left Meg chained to the side of the house, where she had been soaked to the skin by a heavy downpour of rain. She looked a pitiful sight, but despite her bedraggled appearance her beauty still captivated me. My heart lurched with pity and I had to harden my resolve.

  When I released her from the chain, she struggled so fiercely that I barely overcame her and was forced to pull her by her long hair through the trees towards the pit, while she ranted and screamed fit to wake the dead. It was still raining hard and she slipped on the wet grass, but I carried on, dragging her along the ground, though her bare arms and legs were scratched by brambles. It was cruel but it had to be done.

  We reached the edge of the pit, but when I started to tip her over the edge, she clutched at my knees and began to sob pitifully.

  'Please!' she cried. 'Spare me. I can't live like that - not trapped down there in the dark!'

  'You're a witch and that's where you belong,' I told her. 'Be grateful you're not suffering a worse fate—'

  'Oh, please, please, John, think again. Can I help it that I was born a witch? Despite that, I never hurt others unless they threaten me. Remember what we said to each other last night? How we felt? Nothing's changed. Nothing's changed at all. Please put your arms around me again and forget this foolishness.'

  I stood there for a long time, full of anguish, about to topple over the edge myself - until; at last, I made a decision that changed my life.

  She was a lamia witch and such creatures have two forms. Meg appeared to be in the domestic, near-human shape rather than the feral one, in which form the creatures become savage killers. So perhaps she spoke the truth. Maybe she did only use her strength in self-defence.

  There was hope for her, I thought. So why not give her a chance?

  I helped her to her feet and wrapped my arms about her and we both wept. My love for her was so sudden and all-consuming that my heart almost burst through my chest. How could I put her into the pit when I loved her better than my own soul? It was her eyes that captivated me: they were the most beautiful I'd ever seen - along with her voice, which was sweeter and more melodious than any siren song.

  I begged her forgiveness, and then we turned together and, hand in hand, walked away from the pit, back towards the house that now belonged to me.

  It was a fateful night and sometimes, despite my faith in free will and my firm belief that, minute by minute, second by second, we shape our own futures, it does seem to me that some things are meant to be. For had Henry Horrocks still been alive on my return, Meg would certainly have gone into a pit.

  But I was captivated by Meg and she became the love of my life. Beauty is a terrible thing: it binds a man tighter than a silver chain about a witch.

  We lived happily together for almost a month in my Chipenden house, Meg and I. My fondest memories are of the times we sat together on the bench in the western garden, holding hands and watching the sun go down.

  However, things soon started to go wrong. Unfortunately, Meg was very strong-willed, and against my wishes she insisted on visiting the village shops. Her tongue was as sharp as a barber's razor, and right from the start she began to have lively arguments with some of the village women. These disagreements had small beginnings: one woman pushed in front of Meg in a shop, as if she wasn't there. Another called her an 'incomer', and she sensed hostility from all the women to an outsider who was certainly prettier than any of them. A few of these disputes quickly developed into bitter feuds. No doubt there was spite on both sides.

  'Meg, let me do the shopping, I suggested to her. 'You're drawing too much attention to yourself. If it wasn't for me being a spook and you living at my house, they'd have already accused you of being a witch. You'll end up in the dungeons at Caster Castle if you're not careful!' I warned.

  'I can take care of myself, John,' she replied, 'as you well know. Would you want me to be confined to this house and garden just because some shrews in the village insist on making trouble? No, I must fight my own battles!'

  Eventually, being a witch, Meg resorted to witch craft against her enemies. She did no serious harm to the women. One suffered nasty boils all over her body; another exceptionally house-proud woman who worshipped cleanliness had recurring infestations of lice and a plague of cockroaches in her kitchen.
/>   At first the accusations were little more than whispers. Then one woman spat at Meg in the street and received a good hard slap for her discourtesy.

  It would probably have stopped at that, but unfortunately she was the sister of the parish constable.

  One morning the bell rang at the withy-trees crossroads and I went down to investigate. Instead of the poor boggart-haunted farmer that I had been expecting, the stout red-faced parish constable was standing there, truncheon in his belt and hands on his hips.

  'Mr Gregory,' he said, his manner proud and pompous, 'it has come to my attention that you are harbouring a witch. The woman, known as Margery Skelton, has used witchcraft to hurt some good women of this parish. She has also been seen at midnight, under a full moon, gathering herbs and dancing naked by the pond at the edge of Homeslack Farm. I have come to arrest her and demand that you bring her to this spot immediately!'