Spook's Stories: Witches, The Page 4

  Thrown into a dark dungeon, I was. And all alone. Not that I wanted the company of the other two. One was a Mouldheel, the other a Malkin - clan enemies. Dark and damp, it was, down there, with water dripping from the ceiling and just a bed of filthy straw to lie on. They couldn't even leave me in peace to enjoy my misery though. Came for me at midnight. Dragged me along a corridor and into a room with a big wooden table. Clamped my wrists and chained my arms. Weren't satisfied with testing me once.

  'Before we kill a witch, we have to be doubly sure she is one! Said the quisitor. 'We've used swimming. Now it's time for pricking!'

  Really loved his work, that one. Matthew Carter was his name, and he smiled as he stuck that long pin into me. The more I groaned and flinched and shrieked, the more he loved it. I fainted more than once. Soon my body was hurting all over and I couldn't tell when he was jabbing me and when he'd stopped. Said he'd found the Devil's Mark then. True enough, I'd a birthmark just below my knee. About the same size as a copper coin, it was, and this was where he said the Devil had touched me; a place where the Fiend protected me and I couldn't feel pain. It was enough for him. I was proved a witch twice over.

  They were going to execute us just after dawn -that's what he told me - and I spent the long night in that dungeon shivering with cold and fear. Couldn't face being burned. Not that. Please not that! The pain was supposed to be terrible. And a witch can't come back after burning. She has to stay in the dark for ever then.

  They took us out into the yard at first light. It was a miserable morning with heavy drizzle falling out of a grey sky. I remember there were three seagulls on a nearby roof - one for each witch about to die. But then my spirits lifted because I saw what awaited us in the far corner of the castle yard. It wasn't a fire. It was a gallows. They were going to hang us. That meant I'd be able to come back…

  Can't say it was pleasant though. Not nice to be swinging on a rope, panting for breath, with your face going purple and eyes bulging. That's the last thing I saw: the Mouldheel witch hanging next to me, gasping out her last breaths. Then my sight dimmed and everything went dark. All I could hear was my own heart thudding. At first it was going so fast that the thumps all merged into one. Then it grew tired. It was faltering… slowing… missing beats.

  Funny thing, dying. Strange the last memories you have. I saw the madwoman run past me again on her way to throw her knives at the Fiend. Suddenly I recognized her. Knew her name! It was…

  But then I died.

  The Deane clan collected my body from the castle yard and took it back to Pendle. They buried me in a shallow grave in Witch Dell and covered the bare earth with rotting leaves. Then they left me to enjoy my new existence.

  I remember sensing something above, so I stretched up my arms into the chill night air. I sat up and my head burst through the covering of earth. The dell was lit with silver light: I was looking up through the branches of a tree towards a yellow orb. It was the full moon. That was what first summoned me back to this world.

  My next need was blood. Never had I felt so hungry I began to crawl through the dell, sniffing for prey. There were no humans within range but I soon caught a few juicy rats and a field mouse. The rats took the edge off my appetite. Very small, the mouse was, hardly a mouthful, but I couldn't remember anything tasting so delicious. I was a bone witch but had drunk blood before - though none tasting like that. It's so much better when you're dead. You don't need ordinary food any more. What good are potatoes and cooked meat to a dead stomach?

  That food, little though it was, gave me strength. Now I could stand… walk… maybe even run? So how would I feel if I managed to catch a man, woman or child and drink human blood? Some dead witches ain't that strong and the most they can ever do is crawl. I felt sure I'd be one of the stronger ones.

  So I slid under my covering of leaves again and lay on my back for a while, just my nose and eyes peeping up through them. Lying there, I suddenly noticed just how much my head itched. I kept having to scratch it. That's the problem with spending so much time close to the ground and hiding under dead leaves. Things get into your hair and make their homes there.

  You get lots of time to think when you're a dead witch. And my first thoughts were of revenge. At first I decided just to kill that farmer and his dumpling wife; the children would be really juicy. But that would be too easy. There was someone else I really owed for what had happened. Matthew Carter had tortured and murdered me; brought my happy life to an end. I wouldn't enjoy sabbaths no more; would never get to stroke the Fiend.

  Deserved the same back, he did, and more. But how could I get to him? I now knew he was based in Caster. It was a long way there - could be done, but surely there had to be a better way…

  Didn't take me long to work it out, so I set out for Downham right away. I was going to have a serious talk with that old farmer.

  I still wasn't as strong as I'd have liked but I made my way slowly north, keeping Pendle Hill to my left. Just before dawn I managed to catch a couple of rats and settled myself down under a hedge to while away the daylight hours.

  It was long after midnight the following night before I arrived at the boundary of his farm. The first thing I did was kill one of his pigs. It was a small plump pink thing, and it squealed almost until the moment it died. That started the farm dogs barking: must have been chained up or they'd have caught my scent. Pity, that. I could have managed to drain a dog or two. But I have to tell you that pig blood is quite tasty. Next best thing to draining a human.

  That little squealer made me feel a lot stronger. I walked up to the front of the farmhouse and pulled the door right off its hinges. Somewhere above, a child started to cry; it was soon joined by another, and it wasn't long before the old farmer came to the top of the stairs in his nightshirt, the stub of a candle in his trembling hand. He saw me standing in the open doorway, gave a cry of terror and ran back into the bedroom. I heard him slide a bolt into place. Not that it would do him much good.

  I followed him upstairs and leaned hard against the door until, with a creak and a crunch, it flew open. By then his wife was making more noise than her children, who were still screaming from the next bedroom.

  I went in, sat down on the edge of the bed and stared hard at the pair of them. They were sat straight up, blankets pulled up to their chins, arms around each other. Couldn't tell which one was shaking the most. I grinned at them and scratched at my itchy head. A worm dropped out of my hair and began to wriggle around on the coverlet.

  'Might let you both live,' I told them. 'Might let your children live too. But you've got to do exactly what I say…'

  'Don't hurt us, please,' begged the farmer. 'We'll do anything. Anything at all…'

  I smiled. 'All you have to do is get Matthew Carter to come here again. Make sure he arrives after dark, mind. Must be after dark - that's important. Round about midnight would be best. Just tell him another witch has been bothering you. And you need him here to sort her.'

  'What if he won't come?' asked the trembling farmer, his eyes wide with fear.

  'Well, in that case don't bother coming back. Because if you do, you'll find your family dead.'

  He left before dawn, but I stayed close to the house and buried myself under a pile of straw in the barn until it was dark again. Just the tip of my bony nose was sticking out.

  At dusk, that's where the child found me. The eldest daughter - no more than five years old, she was; plump little thing too. I could smell blood pumping through her warm body, and it took all my will power to let her live: I didn't want to have the mother in hysterics again. She had to be calm and peaceful when Matthew Carter arrived.

  'When it goes dark,’ said the child, 'my mother turns all the mirrors in the house to the wall.'

  'Then she's a wise mother. That'll stop witches spying on you and your family.'

  'But you're a witch and my mother says I should keep away from you,' said the child.

  'Mothers know best,' I told her, 'so perhaps yo
u should.'

  'What's it like being a dead witch?'

  'Itchy, child,' I told her, scratching at my head. 'Very itchy.'

  'I could comb your hair if you like…' the child offered.

  She ran off, and five minutes later came back with a comb. I had planned to kill her and the rest of her family eventually, but as she was combing the worms and insects out of my hair, I relented. I'd just kill the old farmer.

  'Go back to your mother and tell her to take you and your sister as far away as possible from here,' I told her. 'And don't come back until well after dawn. Tell her to go right away. It's the only way to save your lives.'

  I watched from the doorway of the barn as the mother took her children to safety, waddling like a duck as she set off on her little legs. Now I had to get myself ready. This time I would be the one waiting in ambush. Firstly I lit the entrance and the stairs well, using half a dozen candles.

  A dead witch slowly loses her control of dark magic. But I hadn't been dead long and I had enough left for what was needed.

  I heard the men approaching the front door. The old farmer had done well. I guessed that two would be planning to wait inside the house, like last time. I wasn't disappointed: luckily Matthew Carter was one of them. He came through the doorway first.

  I smiled at him from the top of the stairs. 'Why don't we two have a little chat, Handsome Matthew?' I suggested pleasantly, giving him my sweetest smile. 'Just you and me alone together in the bedroom…'

  As he started to climb the stairs towards me, his tongue was hanging further out than a hungry dog's at the sight of fresh meat. Below, his companion looked very disappointed at not being invited into my company.

  I was using the dark magic spells glamour and fascination, of course: the first could make even a dead witch appear extremely attractive; the second would have made him climb those stairs anyway.

  'Come and sit next to me on the bed,’ I bade the quisitor, closing the door behind us. 'Why don't we start with a little kiss?'

  He did as I suggested, but just before his lips fastened on mine, the eager expression on his face turned to one of dismay. He'd smelled the real me: the stench of rot and decay, of dark damp loam and mouldy leaves. Then I uncloaked myself from the spell and his dismay turned to terror.

  As I started to feed, that Matthew Carter screamed louder than the little pink pig I'd killed the previous night. I plunged my teeth deep into his neck and drained him with great hungry gulps. I felt the throb of his blood start to become erratic. Soon his heart stopped beating. Now he was Dead Matthew, and no longer of any interest to me.

  I killed the second man in the doorway. The third and fourth were hiding in the barn, but I soon sniffed them out. There were others but they ran off in panic. Only the old farmer stayed. He thought his wife and children were still inside the house.

  I'd had more blood than I needed and was full to bursting. Even so, I passed close to the old farmer as I walked across the yard - close enough to start his knees knocking.

  'I've decided to let you live. But next time a witch begs at your gate,' I warned him, 'give her what she asks for.'

  Then I was gone, heading back south towards Witch Dell.

  There's something else I forgot to tell you. After I'd died I couldn't remember the name of the madwoman again. Strained my dead brain but it just wouldn't come. Now I'm a lot weaker and can't walk any more. Even a dead witch doesn't last forever. And though my memories are slipping away fast, odd fragments keep coming back.

  I can see that daft girl now as she's running past me on her way to knife the Fiend. And now I've remembered she was a Malkin and her name's on the tip of my tongue… the very tip. If only I could remember! I'd write it down then and our clan would seek her out for sure. She can't hide forever. There are too many of us and she can't defeat us all.

  It'll be light soon, so I've got to crawl back to the dell. Maybe I'll remember and write it down tomorrow night. That's if my fingers haven't dropped off. And if I can still remember the way here…

  GRIMALKIN'S

  TALE

  My name is Grimalkin and I fear nobody. But my enemies fear me. With my scissors I snip the flesh of the dead; the clan enemies that I have slain in combat. I cut out their thumb-bones, which I wear around my neck as a warning to others. What else can I do? Without ruthlessness and savagery I would not survive even a week of the life I lead. I am the witch assassin of the Malkin clan.

  Are you my enemy? Are you strong? Do you possess speed and agility? Have you had the training of a warrior? It matters nought to me. Run now! Run fast into the forest! I'll give you a few moments' start. An hour if you wish. Because no matter how hard you run, you'll never be fast enough, and before long I'll catch and kill you. I am a hunter and also a blacksmith skilled in the art of forging weapons. I could craft one especially for you; the steel that would surely take your life.

  All the prey I hunt I will slay. If it is clothed in flesh, I will cut it. If it breathes, I will stop its breath. And your magic daunts me not, because I have magic of my own. And boggarts, ghosts and ghasts are no greater threat to me than they are to a spook. For I have looked into the darkness - into the greatest darkness of all -and I am no longer afraid.

  My greatest enemy is the Fiend - the dark made flesh. Even as a child I disliked him; saw the way he controlled my clan; watched the way its coven fawned over him. That growing revulsion was something instinctive in me; a natural-born hatred. I knew that unless I did something, he would become a blight upon my life, a dark shadow over everything that I did.

  But there is one way in which a witch can ensure that he keeps his distance. A method that is very extreme but ensures that she is free of his fearsome power. She has to be close to him just once and bear his child. After he has inspected his offspring, he may not approach her again. Not unless she wishes it.

  Most of the Fiend's children are abhumans - evil creatures that will do the bidding of the dark. Others grow to be powerful witches. But a few - and it is rare indeed - are born perfect human children untainted by evil. Mine was such a child.

  I had never felt such love for another creature. To feel its warmth against my body, so trusting, so dependent, was wonderful beyond my dreams; something I had never imagined or anticipated. This little child loved me and I loved it in return; it depended upon me for life, and I was truly happy for the first time in my life. But such happiness rarely lasts.

  I remember well the night that mine ended. The sun had just set and it was a warm summer's night, so I walked out into the garden to the rear of my cottage, cradling my child, humming to him softly to lull him to sleep. Suddenly lightning flashed overhead and I felt the ground move beneath my feet. The Fiend was about to appear and my heart lurched with fear. At the same time I was glad, because once he saw his son he would leave and never be able to visit me again. I would be rid of him for the rest of my life.

  I was not prepared for the Fiend's reaction though. No sooner had he materialized than, with a roar of anger, he snatched my innocent baby boy and lifted him high in the air, ready to dash him to the ground.

  'Please!' I begged. 'Don't hurt him. I'll do anything but please let him live…'

  The Fiend never even looked at me. He was filled with wrath and cruelty. He smashed my child's fragile head against a rock. Then he vanished.

  For a long time I was insane with grief. And then thoughts of revenge began to swirl within my head. Was it possible? Could I destroy the Fiend? Impossible or not, that became my goal and my only reason to continue living. I was still young - just turned seven teen - although strong and tall for my age. I had chosen to bear the Fiend's child as a means to be free of him forever, and once I'd decided to pursue that course of action, nothing could stop me. Nothing would stop me now.

  Wearing my thickest leather gloves, I forged three blades, each one tipped with silver alloy. It was painful for me even to be close to that metal which is harmful to all who have allegiance to the dark. But I g
ritted my teeth and did the work to the very best of my ability. Next I had to find my enemy - but that was the easy part.

  The Fiend does not visit on every sabbath; some years he does not come at all. But Halloween was the most likely, and for some reason he particularly favours the Deanes at that time. So, shunning the Malkin celebration on Pendle Hill, I set off for Roughlee, the Deane village.

  I arrived at dusk and settled myself down in a small wood overlooking the site of their sabbath fire. I was not too concerned about being detected. They would all be excited and distracted by their preparations, and besides, I had cloaked myself in my strongest magic, and such a thing as I planned would come as a surprise to them, to say the least. Most witches would consider it insane. The Deanes were not generally known for their imagination and are the least creative of the three clans.

  Soon the witches began to gather and, combining their magic, they ignited the fire with a loud whoosh. Most of the fuel used was wood, but at its heart was a large pile of old bones, those no longer useful for dark magic. Most people call such a blaze a bonfire, but that name is derived from the word that witches use - bone-tire. The coven of the thirteen strongest witches formed a tight circle around its perimeter; their lesser sisters encircled them.

  Just as the stink of the fire began to reach me, the Deanes began to curse their enemies. With wild shrieks and guttural cries, they called down death and destruction upon those they named. Someone old and enfeebled, or a witch grown careless might fall victim to such curses, but mostly they were wasting their time. All witches have defences against such dark magic. But I heard them name Caxton, the High Sheriff at Caster. He had arrested one of their number recently and now they wanted him dead. I knew that he would be lucky to survive the week.

  As they finished cursing, there was a change in the fire: the yellow flames became orange, then red. It was the first sign that the Fiend was about to appear, and I heard an expectant gasp go up from the gathering. I stared towards the fire as he began to materialize. Able to make himself large or small, the Fiend was taking shape in all his fearsome majesty in order to impress his followers. The flames reached up to his knees, revealing that he was tall and broad - perhaps three times the size of an average man - with a long sinuous tail and the curved horns of a ram. His body was covered in thick black hair, and I saw the coven witches reach forward across the flames, eager to touch their dark lord.