The
All Hallows Witches
Tuesday,
nothing special, same mundane day dragging on as usual. Then I get
this phone call from my aunt. Not the nice social sort, she and I
shared every week but borderline hysterical.
My
aunt Jeanette, lived on a remote croft in the Scottish highlands. It
was at the end of October, when I got the panic phone call from her
asking me to come up urgently to Scotland. I didn't give it a moments
thought. I immediately said, “Sure. I'm on my way.” And began to
make arrangements for the 300 mile drive from my home in London. I
was intrigued because she wouldn't tell why she needed my help so
pressingly.
If
I was going to make it to Scotland, driving my clapped out banger of
a car all the way there, was not an option. Poor old thing had only
just scrapped through it's MOT test. Perhaps it would have been
better if I had driven my own car, as it was, I hired, what I thought
was a tougher, newer, and more reliable transport. I hired a 4x4,
and set off confident I'd have no problems.
I
had driven to my aunt's cottage many times, but the delay caused in
hiring a car made me leave London later than I should have. It was
almost 10 pm and very dark when I finally arrived at her single story
farm house.
My
aunt opened the door looking harassed and with a troubled expression
on her normally calm face.
“What
took you so long?” She asked peering into the blackness quickly
ushering me through the door and slamming the bolt in place,
something she never usually bothered to you.
“Heavens
– what have you done to yourself?” I asked. She was on crutches
with a plaster cast on her right leg that went up to her knee.
“Had
an accident with the car. It's a lot worse off than I am. I'll tell
you all about it later but first help me with these bags. I've booked
us rooms at an hotel for the night. It's about 20 miles from here, so
we better get going.” She answered talking rapidly as if speaking
any slower was wasting time.
Without
offering any explanation Aunt Jeanette, pointed a crutch at a
holdall, and small suitcase sitting by her front door.
I
hauled the luggage to the car, settled her in. With my curiosity at
bursting point, I said, “Okay, I'm not going anywhere until you
tell me what on earth is going on.”
“I'll
tell you as we drive. We canny stay here any longer. It's getting too
close to the time. They'll soon be here.”
“Who
will be here?”
“I
said drive. We can't stay here any longer.” The terror in her voice
made me do as she told me. I put the key back in the ignition, and
started the car. Except I didn't. The car growled, spluttered but
refused to turn the engine over. I tried three more times. Each time
I got the same response. Noise – no movement.
“We'd
better get back inside and protect ourselves.” She scrambled out of
the car, and hobbled as fast as her injury allowed back into the
house. I followed, my curiosity reaching its limits.
Inside
she began barking orders at me, “Close all the shutters and make
sure the outer doors are barred. I'll re-stoke the fire. There's more
wood in the back lobby. As soon as you've barred the door, bring
all the wood there is, in here. We need as big a blaze as we can get,
and me mustn’t let the fire go out. ”
“Auntie – will you please tell me what on earth is happening here? What is
after you?”
I
saw in my aunt's eyes a cavernously deep terror. Her face became
drained of colour as she whispered, “They are coming not just for
me – they are coming for us.”
I
squeezed her hand and asked as gently as I could,” What is coming
for us? Why are you so frightened?”
“Because
of what my ancestor did. Please don't waste time. First we must make
the cottage safe from anything getting in, then I'll tell you
everything.”
My
aunt's cottage had heavy wooden shutters covering every window of the
single story building. I had always thought they were there to keep
out the harsh highland winter. It wouldn't be long before I learnt
the real reason, and I was going to be terrified beyond my
imagination.
Each
window had a shutter either side of it, and each shutter opened down
the middle, with a thick iron bolt on the inside running across the
centre, making it impossible for anyone to open the shutter from the
outside. The ceiling hatch to the roof attic had a thick iron chain
and double padlocks securing it from being opened from inside the
attic. The front and back doors of the cottage were protected by a
stone porch that had a heavy wooden door opening outwards with the
same iron bolt configuration across the middle, and strong metal
bolts top and bottom. The front and back doors of the cottage
mirrored the porch doors.
I
went through the cottage closing the shutters, and bolting them. As I
shut the the windows I realised the double glazed units were made
from unbreakable glass. I drew the curtains, and wondered what on
earth had my aunt so frightened that she had turned her cottage into
a mini fortress.
The
house on total lock down, we sat by the now roaring fire drinking
coffee to keep us awake. My aunt talking – me listening.
“Your
great grandfather Hamish MacDonald, a few times back, was a man of
strong religious views who believed in the devil as strongly as he
believed in God. In 1647, the burning of witches was a familiar
occurrence in these parts. The victims nearly always women. On a
particularly cold wet November night, there was a knock at the
cottage door. Four women, one heavily pregnant were outside begging
for sanctuary. Hamish's wife, Jean MacDonald, did what any decent
person would do, she let them in to warm themselves by the fire and
fed them hot broth. Hamish had been away in the local town, and on
his return he recognised the women as witches who had been tried and
sentenced to burn at the stake. Somehow they had managed to escape
from their accusers, and fled into the hills looking for a place to
hide until the storm passed.
Jean,
pleaded with him to help them. She begged for the unborn child's sake
to let them stay.
He'd
have none of it. “That creature nestled in her belly is the devil's
child. It should die along with her.” His heart as hard as stone,
Hamish threw them out into the cold dark night.
Quietly,
Jean, told them to go to the barn where they would at least be warm
until morning, when she would try and help them get away.
During
night the pregnant woman went into labour in the barn. She died
giving birth to a stillborn baby boy. In the morning Hamish found the
bodies of the mother and child in his barn. Unrepentant at his
cruelty he went into town and alerted the witch hunters about the
other women. The three other woman didn't get far before they were
caught. Guilty of witchcraft, they were burnt at the stake, and as
they burned, in their agony they cursed Hamish MacDonald, and all his
offspring.
The
following year, on all hallows eve, Hamish and Jean were sitting in
front of a warm fire, when there was a a knock on the door. Hamish
went out to see who it was. I don't know for sure what happened.
Nobody does other that Jean found him in front of the barn. A
terrorized expression on his face, and his hands curled as if
clutching at something.”
“Auntie – it's just a story. Who knows what really happened back then. He
could have been drunk and died of exposure.” I said rationally. My
aunt came back straight at me.
“There
were others. After Hamish died, Jean moved away and gave the croft to
Hamish's younger brother. He never lived there but on his death the
cottage and land was inherited by his son. Joshua MacDonald died the
same way as his uncle on all hallows eve. After that, although the
croft has remained in the MacDonald family, no one in the family has
ever stayed here again on Halloween. Until tonight.”
The
shiver than ran down my spine chilled me to my bones.
“They
will come for us and we have to be ready.” As if to emphasise her
point she threw a large log on the fire. We sat in silence as the
flames caught hold of the wood.
I
felt the heat of the fire as if I was inside it. And was it my
imagination? Did I hear a scream on the wind? The agonised sound of a
woman burning to death. I'm sure I did. Whatever I thought I heard,
the noise of someone knocking on the front door was heard by us both.
The
cloak on the mantel above the fireplace showed 10pm.
Our
night of horror began.
Several
loud raps in succession ripped into the silence between us.
“It's
them.” My aunt whispered in a terror soaked voice.
“It
could be a neighbour calling to see if you are all right.” Neither
of us believed what I was saying.
We
sat still, not daring to move, straining our ears against the clamour
of the highland wind whistling around the cottage, praying to hear
retreating footsteps.
My
heart was pounding so hard, it vibrated against the inside of my
skull. Fear dried my throat that I couldn't breathe. Then the
knocking stopped, and for a long time there was an eerie expectant
silence.
The
scratching began softly at first. On another night, we'd have
dismissed it as mice – but this was all hallows, and something was
outside wanting revenge. The scratching became a deep clawing. We saw
in our imagination the gouges cut in shutters, and the owners of the
long talons that were ripping into the thick wood.
I
shivered, and for the first time in my life wished I wasn't a
MacDonald.
Dead
fingers turned the door handles, rattling the locks, trying in vain to
enter.
Fear
shot down to my bladder. I had to pee. Then I remembered, the
bathroom was the one room where I had forgotten to close the
shutters.
I
was going to have to open the window, lean out, grab the shutters,
and then pull them together before I could close them. The window was
typical of a bathroom, narrow. It would be a squeeze. Getting stuck a
possible reality.
My
brain yelled at me to scramble to my feet and repair my mistake.
I
glanced at my aunt. Her eyes were red rimmed from tiredness. The skin
across her cheeks pinched and sallow, dark circles under the redness,
accentuated her fearful expression. I felt awful in forgetting the
shutter, I'd let her down. I brightened for a moment. The window was
triple glazed with security glass. Surely nothing could get through
that? Did I need to tell her? She'd find out when she used the
bathroom. No point in hiding what I done.
“Auntie Jeanette. I didn't close the shutter over the bathroom window. Surely
that's okay? After all the window itself is as strong as Fort Knox?”
What
little colour she had left in her face drained to pale ashen.
“Oh
Alison. You have to shut it. It's not the shutters themselves that
are important. It's the runes written on them.”
“But
I didn't see any runes.” I defended myself.
“They
are old and faded but they are there, and they are our only
protection. You have to close those shutters. If you don't they will
get in, and we will die.”
Filled
with that cheering thought, I sped to the bathroom. I no longer
needed to pee. My fear saw to that.
The
glass in the window was clear. I had always thought it was another of
my aunt's odd foibles, now I understood why. A light hanging directly
above the window gave an unobstructed view of the outside. Pressing
up against the glass, I could see everything in a ten feet circle.
Enough to warn me of approaching witches – I hoped.
My
dry throat ached for relief. The sink taps' tantalizing allure of
water tempted me – but I daren't drink. I wasn't going to alert
whatever was out there to where I was.
With
the same thought I left the light switch turned off. I didn't need
the light anyway. There was enough brightness coming in from the
outside.
With
trembling fingers I slowly lifted the handle of the window until I
felt a slight opening. Not daring to breath I gently pushed it open
and leaned out as far as I could, both arms extended. The force of
the biting cold curled my fingers, slowing me down.
There
was something circling on my left. Movement caught the edge of my
vision, then I heard the footsteps close by. Too close.
Another
movement to my right. Panic swelled up my abdomen, hitting me in the
chest. I stopped breathing but I didn't stop thinking. I threw myself
as far forward as I could, grabbed the shutters, and I yanked as
quickly as I could to close them. Inches from my goal two pairs of
hands, the fingers blackened and burnt down to the bone in places,
seized hold of each shutter, forcing them open again.
I
heard myself scream as I saw their faces or rather what was left of
their faces. Black eyes, mad with vengeance. Scorched flesh hanging
down in fire savaged ribbons. Lip-less teeth snarling hate at me.
There was not a glimmer of humanity left in the creatures, only a
raging fury against the living.
Somehow
I managed to keep my mind, and hang onto the edge of wooden shutters.
Hard as I tried, my physical strength was no match for their ethereal
anger. The shutters flew open and the witches screeched into the
bathroom.
My
memory of what happened next is sketchy. The rubber end of a crutch
was push under my arm. Seizing the lifeline I somehow made it to the
open doorway, and my aunt. Balancing on one crutch she slammed the
door shut behind me with the other. On the side facing into the
hallway, she had hurriedly chalked a set of symbols.
“These
should keep them out for awhile.” She said of her work.
“What
do they say?”
“I've
no idea. I simply wrote what is written on the shutters. I only hope
I remembered correctly.” She had.
The
wind calmed to a low monotonous drone. It would have been better if
it hadn't. The quiet brought with it another horror.
The
hairs on the back of my neck stood straight, and a cold dread crawled
up my spine, sending a tingling sensation all the way to my finger
tips. I no longer felt simple fear, a far greater dread took hold of
me as I listened to the creatures running up the side of the cottage,
and onto the roof. Moments later roof tiles began to cascade like
rain down onto the ground. We held hands as the bolted hatchway to
the attic shook from a tremendous force hitting it over and over
again. The chain strained, and one of the padlocks split apart.
Horrified we watched the hatch opening.
“The
kitchen steps. Go get them.” I understood immediately what my aunt
planned to do. I pulled the steps directly under the hatch.
Fire
ravaged fingers curled tightly onto the wooden attic door pulling it
upwards. What was left of an arm pushed through the opening swatting
the air.
Ducking
the arm, and ignoring the pain shooting through her foot my aunt
managed to balance herself on the top step. Giving no thought to the
harm to her already broken leg if she fell, she stretched upwards far
as she could, and wrote the same strange words as she had on the
bathroom door.
The
last symbol drawn, a piecing shriek sliced the air, howling
profanities the creature was thrown backwards by the forceful power
of the ancient spell.
As
long as I live, I hope never again to hear such a sound as that
scream.
Then
everything went quiet. We piled more wood on the fire sending the
flames high up into the chimney. Exhaustion pushing us towards sleep,
we drank more black coffee to stay awake, and waited, praying we'd
heard the last of the witches.
“If
the runes stop them getting into the house. Surely there must be a
some way of stopping them from coming here at all?” The runes
worked at keeping the witches out of the cottage, so it stood to
reason there had to be a way of lifting the curse.
My
aunt nodded a slow tired nod, sighed deeply and said, “Maybe there
is a way to stop this – I don't know if I have the courage to do
it.” She was talking more to herself than me.
“And
that is?” I asked when she didn't continue.
“It's
too frightening. And besides I don't know if they will do as I hope.”
“Aunt
Jeanette, what happens if you get trapped here on Halloween again,
and I'm not here to help you? Are you going to face these creatures
on your own? Please - tell me. I'll do whatever it takes to rid us of
this curse.”
My
aunt looked washed-out and on the verge of collapse - but I had to
know. I pushed, “Tell me. At least let me try.”
Her
light blue eyes had taken on a slate grey, and there were newly
appeared streaks of white in her hair. Shrugging something to herself
she said, “Many years ago, my father consulted a medium. She told
him we had to face the wronged women. We had to atone for the crime
Hamish committed. We have to make amends.”
“And
how do we do that?”
“We
have to invite them into the cottage, and let them stay the night
with us. And we have to do it before midnight.”
The
clock on the mantel said we had fifteen minutes to decide.
Had
it only been two short hours since I'd pulled my hire car up in front
of my aunt's cottage. It seemed like days.
I
made the decision for both of us. I did not need to look at my aunt
to see her expression as I walked toward the front door, the chill of
her terror was driven into my back.
What
choice did I have?
After
the blazing heat of the cottage the night air was cold on freezing –
but it wasn't the cold that made be shudder. Standing in the pool of
yellow light cast outwards from the porch, stood the four women. I
saw them as they had looked in life. Two of them were so alike they
had to have been sister. Wild red hair that tumbled down their backs
in rivers of fiery curls. High boned cheeks, and wide green eyes,
gave a a frame to their full lipped mouths. Tall and willowy slender
with high full mounded breasts shown off from underneath low cut
bodices. They were beautiful, how anyone could have imaged them to be
witches was beyond me. The other two were completely different. The
one with the baby, so very young, not more than seventeen, dark
haired with grey eyes that had seen too much pain beyond her years.
The
last of them, an old bent woman who could not have been less than
seventy when she went to the fire. She may have looked the part of a
witch, grey streaked hair, hanging in dirty unkempt clumps around her
shoulders – but her only crime was being old.
“My
name is Alison MacDonald, I am a descendant of Hamish MacDonald, a
cruel man who caused you great harm - but I am also the descendant of
Jean MacDonald, who tried to help you. We have his blood in us but
not his cruelty. Please come in from the cold and warm yourselves.”
Anticipation gripped my senses. I swallowed hard and stood to one
side as the women walked passed me into the cottage.
My
aunt frozen with fear, sat upright in her chair, unmoving, as the
macabre quartet formed a semi-circle around her.
She
looked over to me, a solitary tear began to journey down her face as
she said, “I lied. There was no medium. I just wanted this to end.
And there's something else you need to know.”
Before
she could finish saying what it was, the women turned to me and
said,“You are no MacDonald.”
My
aunt nodded, “Your mother couldn't have children.” It was one
helluva way to find out I was adopted.
“We
are Margaret and Ellen Curran.” The two who looked to be sisters
said.
“I
am Mary Douglas.” Said the old woman.
“I
am Flora Murry, my son would have been Ian.”
“We
have come for justice against the last line of Hamish MacDonald.”
They all said together.
Even
though the fire blazed with a yellow blue ferocity, an intense cold
enveloped the room. I felt the undiluted white fury of their souls,
wraiths of the underworld consumed by vengeance had come for my aunt
– and I had let them in.
“No.
You won't take her. Not while I've got anything to say about it, you
won't.” I had a sudden understanding of what was about to happen to
my aunt.
If
I couldn't stop them before the clock struck midnight, they would
take my aunt's soul down into hell.
I
rushed a glance up at the mantel, I had ten minutes before the clock
reached midnight.
Snatching
one of my aunt's crutches I hit wildly outwards with the it, aiming
at the nearest witch to me.
By
luck I got a direct hit on Flora, she doubled over clutching at her
stomach in pain.
Taking
my lead, from her sitting position in the chair, my aunt stabbed at
them with the other crutch.
“It's
the night of all hallows.” My aunt shouted swishing her crutch in
mid-air, “It's the only night they can take human form, and the
only night we can fight them.” She laughed at the crazy
understanding that for all years the MacDonalds had lived in fear of
Halloween, it was the one night they could have rid themselves of
their curse.
Flora
stumbled backwards towards the fire, I saw my chance, and took it. I
lunged at her. Catching her squarely in the middle, I pushed her into
the roaring fire. The flames leapt to embrace her, consuming her body
in a spiral of thick brackish green smoke.
With
a mind to the ticking clock, I wasted no time in attacking the other
three. This time is was not so easy. They weren't going to go
anywhere near the fire. My aunt, bless her, had other ideas.
Pulling
herself up from the chair, she balanced her side against the armrest
and continued to stab at the three women surrounding her, pushing
them back from her, and closer to the hearth.
Intend
on my aunt, and seemingly forgetting about me, I managed to give Mary
Douglas a heavy crack across the back of her head. She was the next
one that went with the help of the crutch into the fire.
There
we were, the four of us. Both sides intend on the final end of the
other.
The
short hand on the clock was perilously close to midnight. If I didn't
do something and quick, my aunt would be lost to the real world
forever. There are times in your life when something so extraordinary
happens that you find a strength you never knew you had. This was one
of those times.
Out
from somewhere I found a strength, I didn't know I had. Three minutes
to midnight.
I
threw the crutch away from me and grabbed hold of the two sisters.
Digging my fingers firmly onto their arms, I drank deeply from that
unseen thing that gives you a strength far beyond your norm, and
hurled them one after the other into the crackling flames.
We
watched, my aunt and I, as the things that had once been human women
were consumed by the fire just as the clock on the mantel touched
midnight.
After
that night. My aunt Jeanette, sold the cottage, and came to live with
me in London.
Will
the all hallows witches no longer seek revenge? I'm not so sure. It's
become a tradition with my aunt and I, to spend Halloween together,
we drink black coffee and stay awake until after midnight –
listening to the sound of whispered moans just outside our front
door. The door with the bolts and the runes written across it.
thanks
for reading this post
Josephine
Sanchez Vanner
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