Wardstone 7 - The Spook's Nightmare (3 page)

Then I heard a noise nearby – a sort of groaning. It was the Spook.

‘Sounds like he’s having a bad dream,’ Alice said.

‘Perhaps we should wake him up?’ I suggested.

‘Leave him for a few minutes. It’s best if he comes out of it by himself.’

But if anything his cries and moans grew louder and his body started to shake; he was becoming more and more agitated, so after another minute I shook him gently by the shoulder to wake him.

‘Are you all right, Mr Gregory?’ I asked. ‘You seemed to be having some kind of nightmare.’

For a moment his eyes were wild and he looked at me as if I were a stranger or even an enemy. ‘Aye, it was nightmare all right,’ he said at last. ‘It was about Bony Lizzie . . .’

Bony Lizzie was Alice’s mother, a powerful witch who was now bound in a pit in the Spook’s garden at Chipenden.

‘She was sat on a throne,’ continued my master, ‘and the Fiend was standing at her side with his hand on her left shoulder. They were in a big hall that I didn’t recognize at first. The floor was running red with blood. Prisoners were crying out in terror before being executed – they were cutting off their heads. But it was the hall that really bothered me and set my nerves on edge.’

‘Where was it?’ I asked.

The Spook shook his head. ‘She was in the great hall at Caster Castle! She was the ruler of the County . . .’

‘It was just a nightmare,’ I said. ‘Lizzie’s safely bound.’

‘Perhaps,’ said the Spook. ‘But I don’t think I’ve ever had a dream that was more vivid . . .’

We set off cautiously towards Chipenden. The Spook said nothing about the sudden mist that had arisen the previous night. It was the season for them, after all, and he had been busy preparing to fight the soldier at the time. But I was sure that it had appeared at Alice’s bidding. Though who was I to say anything? I was tainted by the dark myself.

We’d only recently returned from Greece after defeating the Ordeen, one of the Old Gods. It had cost us dear. My mam had died to gain our victory, and so had Bill Arkwright, the spook who’d worked north of Caster – that’s why we had his dogs with us.

I’d also paid a terrible price. In order to make that victory possible, I’d sold my own soul to the Fiend.

All that prevented him from dragging me off to the dark now was the blood jar given to me by Alice, which I carried in my pocket. The Fiend couldn’t approach me while I had it by me. Alice needed to stay close to me to
share its protection – otherwise the Fiend would kill her in revenge for the help she’d given me. Of course, the Spook didn’t know about that. If I told him what I’d done, it would be the end of my apprenticeship.

As we climbed the slope towards Chipenden, my master grew more and more anxious. We’d seen pockets of devastation: some burned-out houses; many that were deserted, one with a corpse in a nearby ditch.

‘I’d hoped they wouldn’t have come so far inland. I dread to think what we’ll find, lad,’ he said grimly.

Normally he would have avoided walking through Chipenden village: most people didn’t like being too close to a spook and he respected the wishes of the locals. But as the grey slate roofs came into view, one glance was enough to tell us that something was terribly wrong.

It was clear that enemy soldiers had passed this way. Many of the roofs were badly damaged, with charred beams exposed to the air. The closer we got, the worse it was. Almost a third of the houses were completely burned out, their blackened stones just shells of what
had once been homes to local families. Those that hadn’t gone up in flames had broken windows and splintered doors hanging from their hinges, with evidence of looting.

The village seemed completely abandoned, but then we heard the sound of banging. Someone was hammering. Quickly the Spook led us through the cobbled streets towards the sound. We were heading for the main road through the village, where the shops were. We passed the greengrocer’s and the baker’s, both ransacked, and headed for the butcher’s shop, which seemed to be the source of the noise.

The butcher was still there, his red beard glinting in the morning light, but he wasn’t carrying out repairs to his premises; he was nailing down the lid of a coffin. There were three other coffins lined up close by, already sealed and ready for burial. One was small and obviously contained a young child. The butcher got to his feet as we entered the yard and came across to shake the Spook’s hand. He was the one real contact my master had amongst the villagers; the only person he ever
talked to about things other than spook’s business.

‘It’s terrible, Mr Gregory,’ the butcher said. ‘Things can never be the same again.’

‘I hope it’s not . . .’ the Spook muttered, glancing down at the coffins.

‘Oh, no, thank the Lord for that at least,’ the butcher told him. ‘It happened three days ago. I got my own family away to safety just in time. No, these poor folk weren’t quick enough. They killed everybody they could find. It was just an enemy patrol, but a very large one. They were out foraging for supplies. There was no need to burn houses and kill people; no cause to murder this family. Why did they do that? They could just have taken what they wanted and left.’

The Spook nodded. I knew what his answer was to that, although he didn’t spell it out to the butcher. He would have said it was because the Fiend was now loose in the world. He made people more cruel, wars more savage.

‘I’m sorry about your house, Mr Gregory,’ the butcher continued.

The colour drained from the Spook’s face. ‘What?’ he demanded.

‘Oh, I’m really sorry … don’t you know? I assumed you’d called back there already. We heard the boggart howling and roaring from miles away. There must have been too many for it to deal with. They ransacked your house, taking anything they could carry, then set fire to it . . .’

M
aking no reply, the Spook turned and set off up the hill, almost running. Soon the cobbles gave way to a muddy track. After climbing the hill, we came to the boundary of the garden. I commanded the dogs to wait there as we pushed on into the trees.

We soon found the first bodies. They had been there some time and there was a strong stench of death; they wore the grey uniforms and distinctive helmets of the enemy, and they’d met violent ends: either their throats had been ripped out or their skulls crushed. It was clearly the work of the boggart. But then, as we left the trees and headed out onto lawn near the house, we saw that what the butcher had said was correct. There had
been too many for the boggart to deal with. While it had been slaying intruders on one side of the garden, other soldiers had moved in and set fire to the house.

Only the bare, blackened walls were standing. The Spook’s Chipenden house was now just a shell: the roof had collapsed and the inside was gutted – including his precious library.

He stared at it for a long time, saying nothing. I decided to break the silence.

‘Where will the boggart be now?’ I asked.

The Spook replied without looking at me. ‘I made a pact with it. In return for guarding the house and doing the cooking and cleaning, I granted it dominion over the garden: any live creature it found there after dark – apart from apprentices and things bound under our control – it could have, after giving three warning cries. Their blood was its for the taking. But the pact would only endure as long as the house had a roof. So after the fire, the boggart was free to leave. It’s gone, lad. Gone for ever.’

We walked slowly around the remains of the house and reached a large mound of grey and black ashes on
the lawn. They had taken a load of the books off the library shelves and made a big bonfire of them.

The Spook fell to his knees and began to root around in the cold ashes. Almost everything fell to pieces in his hands. Then he picked up a singed leather cover; the spine of a book that had somehow escaped being totally burned. He held it up and cleaned it with his fingers. Over his shoulder I could just make out the title:
The Damned, the Dizzy and the Desperate
. It was a book that he’d written long ago as a young man – the definitive work on possession. He’d once lent it to me when I was in terrible danger from Mother Malkin. Now all that remained was that cover.

My master’s library was gone; words written by generations of spooks – the heritage of countless years battling the dark, a great store of knowledge – now consumed by flames.

I heard him give a sob. I turned away, embarrassed. Was he crying?

Alice sniffed quickly three times, then gripped my left arm. ‘Follow me, Tom,’ she whispered.

She picked her way over a couple of charred beams and entered the house through the jagged hole that had once been the back door. She found her way into the ruin of the library, now little more than charred wood and ashes. Here she halted and pointed down at the floor. Just visible was the spine of another book. I recognized it immediately. It was the Spook’s Bestiary.

Hardly daring to hope, I reached down and picked it up. Would it be like the other book we’d found – just the cover remaining? But to my delight I saw that the pages had survived. I flicked through them. They were charred at the edges but intact and readable. With a smile and a nod of thanks to Alice, I carried the Bestiary back to my master.

‘One book has survived,’ I said, holding it out to him. ‘Alice found it.’

He took it and stared at the cover for a long time, his face devoid of expression. ‘Just one book out of all those – the rest burned and gone,’ he said at last.

‘But your Bestiary is one of the most important books,’ I said. ‘It’s better than nothing!’

‘Let’s give him some time alone,’ Alice whispered, taking my arm gently and leading me away.

I followed her across the grass and in amongst the trees of the western garden. She shook her head wearily. ‘Just gets worse and worse,’ she said. ‘Still, he’ll get over it.’

‘I hope so, Alice. I do hope so. That library meant a lot to him. Preserving it and adding to it was a major part of his life’s work. It was a legacy, to be passed on to future generations of spooks.’

‘You’ll be the next spook in these parts, Tom. You’ll be able to manage without those books. Start writing some of your own – that’s what you need to do. Besides, everything ain’t lost. We both know where there’s another library, and we’ll be needing a roof over our heads. Ain’t no use going south to Old Gregory’s damp, cold Anglezarke house. It’ll be behind enemy lines and it’s no place to spend the winter anyway – no books there either. Poor Bill Arkwright can’t live in the mill any more so we should head north for the canal right away. Those soldier boys won’t have got that far.’

‘Perhaps you’re right, Alice. There’s no point in waiting around here. Let’s go and suggest exactly that to Mr Gregory. Arkwright’s library is much smaller than the Spook’s was, but it’s a start – something to build on.’

We left the trees and started to cross the lawn again, approaching the Spook from a different direction. He was sitting on the grass looking down at the Bestiary, head in hands and oblivious to our approach. Alice suddenly came to a halt and glanced towards the eastern garden, where the witches were buried. Once again she sniffed loudly three times.

‘What is it, Alice?’ I asked, noting the concern on her face.

‘Something’s wrong, Tom. Always been able to sniff Lizzie out when I crossed this part of the lawn before . . .’

Bony Lizzie had trained Alice for two years. She was a powerful, malevolent bone witch who was buried alive in a pit, imprisoned there indefinitely by my master. And she certainly deserved it. She’d
murdered children and used their bones in her dark magic rituals.

Leading the way, Alice moved cautiously into the trees of the eastern garden. We passed the graves where the dead witches were buried. Everything seemed all right there, but when we came to the witch pit that confined Lizzie, I got a shock. The bars were bent and it was empty. Bony Lizzie had escaped.

‘When did she get out, Alice?’ I asked nervously, afraid that the witch might be lurking nearby.

Alice sniffed again. ‘Two days ago at least – but don’t worry, she’s long gone by now. Back home to Pendle, no doubt. Good riddance is what I say.’

We walked back towards the Spook. ‘Bony Lizzie’s escaped from her pit,’ I told him. ‘Alice thinks it happened the day after they burned the house.’

‘There were other witches here,’ Alice added. ‘With the boggart gone they were able to enter the garden and release her.’

The Spook gave no sign that he’d heard what we said. He was now clutching the Bestiary to his chest
and staring into the ashes morosely. It didn’t seem a good time to suggest that we go north to Arkwright’s place. It was getting dark now, and it had been a hard journey west, with bad news at the end of it. I just had to hope that my master would be a bit more like his old self in the morning.

Now that they were in no danger from the boggart, I whistled to summon the dogs into the garden. Since our return from Greece, Claw and her fully grown pups, Blood and Bone, had been staying with a retired shepherd who lived beyond the Long Ridge. Unfortunately they’d become too much for him, so we’d collected them and were on our way back to Chipenden when we’d seen the smoke over Caster. The three had been used by their dead master, Bill Arkwright, to capture or kill water witches.