Gallows at Twilight

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© William Hussey 2011

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First published in 2011

First published in this eBook edition 2011

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ISBN: 978-0-19-273279-8

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Contents

THEN 1645 The House of Bones

1  
The Lost Art of Magic

2  
Blades of Her Ancestors

3  
Death Scream

4  
Lair of the Skinwalker

5  
Face of Flies

6  
Terror in the Tunnel

7  
The Ghost of the Grimoire

8  
Hypnosis Horror

9  
Creatures of the Pit

10  
The Serpent Inside

11  
Fire from the Sky

12  
Evil Unleashed

13  
The Man with the Forked Tongue

14  
The Scarab Path

15  
The Burning Boy

16  
Trapped in Time

17  
Demonic Deception

18  
The Nightmare Begins

19  
The Subtle Art of Torture

20  
Watched, Walked, Swum

21  
The Devil’s Disciple

22  
Revelation of the Claviger

23  
The Gallows Hour

24  
Fight and Flight

25  
The Blind Man of Starfall

26  
Secrets and Surprises

27  
Lure of the Signum

28  
The Pursuing Shadow

29  
Army of the Dead

30  
Rhapsody in Darkness

31  
Jake’s Sacrifice

32  
The Witch Ball

33  
Twilight

34  
Hellbound Hopes

THEN 1645 The Home of Demons

Then: 1645
The House of Bones

‘She is coming, my sisters. The poor, doomed child … ’

The witch’s foot danced on the pedal of the spinning wheel.

‘Her stomach is as empty as a leper’s begging bowl and her feet are bare and bleeding,’ the witch continued. ‘Though she is but twelve years old she has cried all the tears of a long-lived life. And now, through heartache and hardship, she has come to
our
door. Death has found her at last.’

With her right hand the witch teased an invisible strand away from the hissing wheel. The magically woven thread passed from her fingers as a funnel of smoke. It spread out, coiling and condensing, until it had grown into a wall of cloud. Inside this foggy screen, a figure moved. A child, lost in a forest. The cloud crackled and the girl emerged from between the trees and stepped under the shadow of the manor house.

‘She is here.’

Lizzie Redfern grasped the lion’s head knocker. She tried to lift the heavy brass ring clasped between the lion’s teeth, but the effort sapped the last of her strength. Her legs gave way and she tumbled down, smacking her face against the cold stone step. Lizzie felt no pain. She was beyond any sense or feeling now.

Dimly, she heard the rasp of a bolt and the weary grumble of the door. Candlelight dazzled. A figure stooped down, its ivory face pinched with concern. Arms encircled Lizzie and picked her from the ground. A rush of words wafted into her ear—

‘Here you are, my dear, just as my clever sister foretold. But you are such a little thing! Come now, into the warmth and the light.’

The sound of the unknown lady’s dress was like the rustle of a half-remembered lullaby. Twice Lizzie mustered the energy to open her eyes. She saw glimpses of a gloomy hall festooned with spider webs and the sweep of a big, dusty staircase. The lady did not seem to feel her burden. With Lizzie secure in her arms, she ghosted through the house. At last, they came to one of the upper rooms.

‘Drude, my dear, I have brought our guest.’

The creak of another door and the glare of another candle.

‘Oh, but she is so
thin
, Lethe,’ the woman called Drude clucked. ‘Bring her straight to the table, the broth is ready.’

No sooner had she been sat down than Lizzie felt the tap of a spoon against her teeth. Rich, meaty stew salted her lips.

‘How charming,’ Lethe purred. ‘See, Drude, how she blinks in the firelight like a newborn pup.’

Lizzie felt a second spoonful of stew wash into her mouth. Heat spread out from her stomach and spilled into her arms and legs. By the time the spoon had scraped the last of the stew from the bowl, she was sitting up and looking at her hosts.

They had called each other ‘sister’ but Miss Drude and Miss Lethe were not at all alike. Clearly the elder of the two, Drude was dressed in a threadbare nightgown stained with splashes from the broth. Straggles of white hair poked out from beneath her nightcap and brushed against a large, warty nose. In contrast, Miss Lethe had the face of a playful imp. She wore a gown of finest yellow satin and had lacy ribbons tied in her long blonde hair.

‘There now,’ said Miss Drude, dabbing Lizzie’s lips with a handkerchief, ‘you must be feeling better.’

‘I am, thank you, ma’am.’

‘No need for thanks, my pet. But tell us, what has brought you to Havlock Grange on so bleak a night?’

‘I’ve been walking from town to town, trying to find what work I can,’ Lizzie explained. ‘I came this night to the village not far from here—Little Muchly, I think it is called. An old lady in a cottage by the river told me to go to the big house. I was to tell the ladies there that “Old Sowerberry” had sent me.’

‘Dear Old Sowerberry.’ Miss Drude showed a set of worn, black teeth. ‘Yes, we have an … arrangement with that lady. She sends all needy children to our door.’

‘Tell me, my dear,’ Miss Lethe said, ‘are you quite alone in the world?’

‘Yes, ma’am. My mother died giving me life. My father … ’ Lizzie’s voice cracked. ‘He was killed the month before last at the great battle at Naseby.’

‘He was a soldier? For which side?’

‘He was a Parliament man.’

Drude nodded sadly. ‘Even here, in our lonely house far from the world, we hear tell of this great conflict—this barbaric civil war.’

While Drude had been speaking, Lizzie’s gaze wandered around the room. The table at which they sat occupied the centre, its surface cluttered with books, parchment, quills, candles, and a cauldron from which the broth had been served. A large curtain had been used to screen off the far end of the chamber. Within a few paces of Lizzie stood a grand stone fireplace with grotesque faces carved into its columns.

A painting hanging above the fireplace caught Lizzie’s eye. The central figure of the picture stared down at the girl, his eyes like two dark gemstones. Aside from the sneer frozen upon his lips, the man in the painting was as beautiful as an angel.

‘Our brother,’ Lethe sighed. ‘Our beautiful, talented brother. How we miss him.’

‘Did he die?’

‘In a way,’ said Drude. ‘He lives still, but it is a half-life. He exists only within the Veil.’

These words confused Lizzie. She asked, ‘What was his name?’

‘Marcus. Marcus Crowden … ’

The flames of the fire quivered. Lizzie turned and saw the curtain at the end of the chamber flutter outwards.

‘Come,’ Miss Drude muttered. ‘Our sister calls.’

Hands locked onto Lizzie’s shoulders. Too shocked to cry out, the girl stumbled forward as the sisters barged her through the room. They reached the curtain and Drude, no longer smiling, grasped the edge and tore it back.

‘This is our youngest sister. Say hello, Frija.’

The woman sitting at the spinning wheel lifted her head. She was small—smaller even than little Lethe—and dressed entirely in black. Although a thick veil covered her face, Lizzie felt sure that Frija Crowden was looking directly at her. Frija’s fingers played through the spokes of the wheel, turning it slowly, surely.

‘I saw your coming, Lizzie Redfern,’ she said.

‘Who are you?’ Lizzie whispered.

‘I am the cloud spinner. My eye sees far and my hand speaks truth. See the truth I spin … ’

Frija’s fingers teased a strand from her spinning wheel and cast it loose. The moment it left her hand, the fibre soared across the room and into a dark corner. Like a bright finger, it descended, touching on a large chest or travelling trunk. The lid was thrown back and, as the light strengthened, Lizzie caught sight of the trunk’s contents.

Screams caught in her throat.

‘Old Sowerberry sends any passing child to Havlock Grange,’ Frija murmured. ‘They come to seek work, to beg a penny. They are brought in, they are fed … and they are never seen again.’

The magically woven strand brightened.