Tanners Dell: Darkly Disturbing Occult Horror (11 page)

Googling his surname alone revealed nothing further. The facts were stark though – he’d been the village GP when both Bella and Tommy were committed to psychiatric care in the nineties.
Had he been the one to block Bella’s referral?
Her heart skipped a beat as she made the connection. Oh but to try and verify that – these people were always well protected legally and medical notes were highly confidential as she knew only too well. But that was one hell of a coincidence, was it not?

And wouldn’t he have been the one to issue birth and death certificates in the area? What about those unmarked graves? Her hands began to shake as the new information hit her. Putting down the phone next to her plate she stared into space.
OhmyGod!
And when her mobile rang a second later she almost jumped clean off the chair.

“Becky, it’s me,” said Noel. “I’ve just done a bit of digging around. Your Dr Crispin is about as popular as the bubonic plague. Worse – he specialises in adolescents and most particularly in anorexia, which is usually girls, or has been to date.”

“Noel, he was the GP in Bridesmoor – has been for over forty years!”

“You’re kidding?”

“No, and it gets worse – you have to read Linda Hedges’ diary. I don’t want to be the only one who knows what’s in it. Oh God, Noel, it’s just so bad you can’t imagine.” She lowered her voice as a couple on an adjoining table had stopped talking and weren’t doing much to hide the fact they were eavesdropping. “The coincidences are glaring but unless the police get involved I can’t see what to do for the best, and to be honest I’m not confident in that direction.”

“Why?”

“I had a tip off. Look, Noel, our best hope is finding Alice and I think I’m going to have to just go and get her out of there myself. And we have to find Michael for Kristy or she’s going to die a horrible death. We’ll have to smuggle him in behind Cripsin Morrow’s back. And if I can just get Alice…”

“I vote for the police.”

“No. I’m scared of them, Noel. They can stop me.”

“What? The police can stop you? Becky, I don’t get this.”

“No, I know. Look, I’ll tell you everything tonight when you come over and then we can make a decision as to what to do.” A sudden vision of Callum lying in his side ward bed shot into her mind’s eye. “I have to go – I need to check on Callum. Anyway, it doesn’t matter what time you get here but please take care, Noel. Watch your back. I’m serious.”

***

Chapter Thirteen

Bridesmoor, November 1972

5am and freezing. Cora speedily picked her way home through the woods. An early morning mist mingled with wood smoke had coiled around the trees and an owl hooted in the distance. Still, now at least she had a much fuller picture of what was going on in her marriage. And she owed her husband nothing.

Since she had seen for herself exactly what Lucas and his coven got up to at Tanners Dell, and having protected him from gossip all these years, a quiet rage now rooted itself inside of her. He’d stolen her life and locked her in, and for that she would never forgive him. Pieces of the puzzle previously dismissed as coincidence or bad luck now slotted together to form a shocking and diabolical picture – one which dominated her every waking thought. Her husband was not only a Satanist but a mass murderer. And worse – she almost laughed with hysterical disbelief at this bit – some of the sworn-in coven members were senior police officers.

And as if that wasn’t bad enough – she glanced over her shoulder into the gloom of the forest– they used dark arts that seemed to work. How all those untimely deaths and accidents made sense to her now: fear entombed the two villages like fog over a stinking swamp, and if anyone still dared to gossip it was from behind net curtains and locked doors. Women took their children to school by the hand and waited for them at the gates in nervous huddles. Not a single child played out after dark, and no one ever went for a walk down by the river or through the woods unless they had a Rottweiler, and even then they hurried back.

Meanwhile, Lucas went to the pit each day as the newly appointed Deputy. and the men who worked under his watch were stoical and silent. The Druids Inn opposite the colliery now hosted but a handful of old men making a pint last all day; and The Highwayman entertained a few teens playing pool, with the occasional thirsty traveller dropping in. It was a ghost town with the inhabitants stuck in a time warp they could never escape.

If she wasn’t his wife, of course, she’d be dead. Instead he had her trapped in misery and fear. With five children and no income it was always going to be tough, but there wouldn’t be a single person around here willing or even able to help – she was Lucas Dean’s wife! And even if she did try to leave he would hunt her down and haul her back for punishment. And then of course, there was Paul. She sighed. If ever there was a boy born in the mould of his father it was him.

As she hurried along, her thoughts fired one after the other. Could she go to a solicitor with this? But what if he contacted the police, which he undoubtedly would, and she was left in an interrogation room with Ernest Scutts? What if the solicitor himself was in on it? What would the coven do to her then?

The GP then?
God no
! Crispin Morrow ran his practice from the front room of a terrace on the main road, and she recoiled just thinking about him, recalling with disgust the way those yellow eyes gleamed when her children had been exposed for various inoculations, not to mention the time he’d examined her following a miscarriage: the memory, the revulsion of it - still so humiliating - made her feel sick.

He’s one of them
…

She swallowed down the shocking thought that almost everyone in a position of power in the area could be involved. The Reverend Gordon…how could he step inside a church and preach from the pulpit about praying for people less fortunate? How could the man hand out what he claimed was the blood and the body of Christ? How could he? No wonder hardly anyone went to church here. Did they know what she knew? They couldn’t, though. People guessed, they were afraid, but they couldn’t know just what a terrible thing was happening on their own doorstep.

So she was isolated then, with only one thing left to save her skin – the second key to that ancient cellar door. He knew she had it. He’d ransacked the house, not caring if the kids were asleep when he upturned their mattresses, rolling them out of bed onto a cold floor. Barging into the bedroom they shared he’d yanked her up by the arm and roared into her face, “You were seen, you stupid bitch. Now give me the fucking key or I’ll beat you to hide.”

He’d left her so badly thrashed she could barely walk, stopping just short of putting her in hospital. But he wouldn’t find that key. Not ever. And she was alive because of it – because he didn’t know who she’d given it to – and because of the thin veneer of respectability she provided should anyone official come calling.

He rarely came home these days anyway; leaving his family with just enough money to pay the bills while he spent the rest however he pleased – a new Cortina, bottles of whisky, whatever he snorted up his nose, and smart clothes.

Carrion’s Wood was at its deepest now and Cora picked up pace towards the lane. The small terrace would be freezing when she got back, with condensation running down the windows, and as usual the kids would have to get dressed underneath the covers without washing because they’d no hot water. That she’d been left in a position like this! A nerve tightened in her jaw and inside her pockets her fists clenched around fingers numb with cold. The trip had been worth it though – a few more pieces had at last slotted into place – and she was more than justified in never having him in the house again.

Ida! That fucking gypsy reject
! Rumour had it she’d been kicked out by some Irish travellers and then ingratiated herself with the Romas. The Romany gypsies were the ones who had colourful caravans and glossy horses, who parked on the Common. The women wore bright headscarves and full skirts and the men mucked in with local work. They had always been welcome and their kids played with the local kids. Or they did until this summer when one of their girls had gone missing.

Cries of, “Rosella!” had echoed through the woods from dawn to dusk as men, women and children, with numerous dogs in tow, had trawled through the fields and combed the woods day after day. Suspicion about the old mill had sparked arguments and a group of the men had broken in and ransacked the place. They’d found nothing but a damp old building with hazardous floor boards, but still Lucas’ name was rumoured on the air, until fights broke out and previously amiable, laid-back gypsies lay in wait for innocent men coming home from their shifts. For several weeks chaos and disturbance reigned, but then the mood suddenly changed.

Cora thought back. In the space of a couple of days one of the gypsy women had a stillbirth, and another a miscarriage quite late on in her term. It was a rainy weekend in late July – and the warm ground had soaked up the excess water, turning the Common into a bog. Drenched and muddy, the woman who’d had the stillbirth had walked over to the woods in the early hours, dressed only in a cotton nightdress, and then hanged herself.

After that a dark cloud of unease hung over the camp. With all the fight drained out of them they stopped looking for Rosella, and although for a while they holed up on Drovers Common discussing what to do, it wasn’t long before they decamped and moved on. A month of searching had produced nothing – it seemed as if Rosella had simply vanished into thin air – and the police had called off their investigation. One at a time, local people came over to pay their respects and offer condolences. And as the nights drew in, fear stretched into the shadows, flitting back under doorways only when the sun came up.

At the sight of the departing merrily painted wagons, anger brewed behind closed doors once more, the gossip shifting to Lucas Dean and just what the hell went on in that old mill. And shortly after that came one of the worst mining accidents in modern history, and then the gossip stopped.

Cora’s mind raced as she hurried along the path. Those gypsies, how they’d suffered – and yet if only they’d known it was they who’d brought the darkness. They’d taken that nasty bloody witch in, hadn’t they? Out of kindness, no doubt, although you’d have thought one of them at least would have sussed her out? Because it was definitely Ida who dished out the drugs and worked the hexes – he couldn’t do that sort of stuff before he took up with her. Miscarriages and premature death? Paralysis and blindness? That was her bit.

Did you suss her
?
Be honest…

She pushed down the unpalatable truth. No, she hadn’t seen Ida for what she was but nor, in fairness, had anyone else. The woman was a shapeshifting genius. She knew now alright, though. Her thoughts deepened. So when had Ida met Lucas exactly? Before or after Rosella had gone missing?

Out of breath now, she looked up – the edge of the woods was in sight and dawn was beginning to streak the sky with fuchsia, wood smoke scenting the air.
Before or after? Before or after?
And did it matter? How secretive they’d been, the two of them! Since she’d been rumbled spying on them they’d moved the coven yet further underground, only meeting during the hours others slept. The thing was, when you watched a place for long enough and quietly enough, you found out what you needed to know. You saw who came and went at 3am while your children were sleeping. Which was how she’d come by information that the gypsies and the village gossips hadn’t.

They were good at slinking around in the shadows were these demon worshippers – always cloaked in black, travelling alone and as swiftly as cats. If you didn’t know where to hide, when to wait, and what to look for, you’d never notice a thing. And unless you were inside that mill you wouldn’t hear anything either – with tens of thousands of tons of water roaring past from the surrounding moors.

A twig snapped not too far away and Cora’s heart jolted. She upped her pace for the last few yards. No one would be walking a dog in here. The darkness seemed to amass behind her as she broke into a near run, emerging a few minutes later onto the high-hedged lane. Dewy cobwebs laced the brambles and an autumn mist hung silent and low. Panting with the exertion she hurried up the hill.

That bloody woman wasn’t a gypsy she was a fucking, demon witch. Oh, how Lucas would have loved discovering that – what a match made in hell. Just think what he could do now he had Ida’s tricks to heighten his power and increase his perversions. But how did he get those child victims? How did he get babies? It was sickening and disgusting, but what could she do? The pair of them would make sure she died in agony.

It was then an eerie grey shape caught her eye.

Oh God, there was a ghost on the Common and it was coming towards her.

She stopped dead and almost cried out. The apparition was dressed in a long dark garment, its skin pearl white, luminescent in the dawn. The eyes were scooped-out hollows, blood dripped from its mouth and its hands were reaching out to her.

Cora stood riveted to the spot.

“Help me,” said the ghost.

Cora’s eyes widened and kept on widening.

“Please. I beg you. My family have gone.”

The words hit her head on. This was the lost gypsy girl. This was Rosella.

She had to think fast. The child was little more than a walking skeleton and with a shock she realised the girl’s legs were bare and bleeding. Cora looked her up and down: apart from the obviously emaciated appearance there was an overpowering stench of vomit and human filth.
This was Lucas’ doing. It was… it was….

There was no way she could take her back home for a bath or call the doctor or police! And those little snitches Paul and Derek would tell Lucas for sure – if she did that she’d be signing not just Rosella’s death warrant but her own too. No one could see them. No one. The village was in lockdown against her and not a soul could be trusted.

The girl lurched forwards and Cora tried not to gag.

“Where did they go? My family?”

“You were with the gypsy camp?”

Rosella nodded.

“Are you Rosella? Oh my God. Have you come from the old mill? Were you being kept there?”

She knew before the girl nodded. Oh dear God, what
had
he done? She had to get this child away from here and make damn sure she never came back. “Listen. Wait here for me. I will get you some clothes and some stuff to clean you up a bit, and I’ll get you some money – but you have to get out of here and you cannot be seen. Trust no one, do you understand?”

Neither woman needed to question the other further; and Rosella let herself be led over to an old shed behind one of the houses. Cora took off her overcoat and wrapped it around her. “Don’t move and don’t make a sound. I’ll be back as quick as I can.”

With her heart leaping about wildly, Cora then hurried home keeping close to the shadows. Letting herself in through the back door she quickly checked the children were still asleep then grabbed what little money she had, a carrier bag of old clothes she could no longer fit into, some soap, a towel and a few slices of bread no-one would miss. Then she topped up a plastic bottle with orange cordial and tap water before rushing back.

Rosella was barely conscious, her skin mortuary cold, but she couldn’t stay with her. “Drink this. Now listen to me. Wash as soon as you can – put these clothes on. I’ll have to take my coat back. Get out of here, love, and don’t ever come back. Don’t bring your family back here for revenge either. I’m
his
wife! I know you’ve been abused but you’re lucky to be alive and they’re all in it here, do you understand? Be quick and be silent.”

“They’ll want revenge when they know what he’s done to me,” the girl croaked, gulping down the juice and trying not to retch it back.