'Going it Alone...'

Making a living from a career in self-publishing is sooooo bloody difficult..! No multi-national publisher to help your books along. No in-house editorial advice. No fancy, paid for book covers or write-ups in the press. Everything the Indie publisher does, is off his/her own bat and yet, we keep on going. We dream, we hope, we pray and we stare for hours on end at still waters... waiting for luck to touch our shoulder...watching for that first bite...

'It's Out There... Somewhere'

From My Window...

See this everyday from my study window... only colours and sky will change. Leaves turn from green to gold to be whisked away on high winds and fast-running rivers, for one last crazy ride to the open sea...

Short Interlude...."Fingers crossed"...

Have known this little fella for almost five years now, named him Blackie for obvious reasons. Comes here every day, two or three times for his food. Trusts us, I guess...But I worry for him 'cause the shoot starts next Wednesday. Forty guns shooting the crap out of anything that flies within range. If Blackie makes it through to the end of January, reckon we'll celebrate with one, helluva party! But the odds are against him, he's getting old, not so quick on the wing anymore...bit like me; likes to sit in the sun and remember, (wind up the gramaphone)... "When you and I were young, Maggie..." 

"I Wolf" continued.

…DeLacy slowed his mount and though the mare’s step was lively, she was nervous of the forest. He waved the boy alongside him.

‘Are you of an open mind, lad?’

‘I am of that mind, squire, though separating truth from lies often troubles me.’

DeLacy smiled at the answer, there was honesty there. Though barely sixteen, the boy stood almost as tall as his master – his outlook more of a grown man and with a quick eye and loose limbs he could deliver the point of his sword faster than most.

‘And our quest... how do you see it? Driven by God’s own truth, or the wanton falsehoods of Lucifer himself.’

Jack took his time in replying.

‘I should say truth, sir. Too many men have died in these forests. I know of five good souls who have perished here. To this day, their families search for them but find nothing.’

‘So you see the beast as real?’

‘Wolves are killers, squire. If a man is foolish enough to walk the forest alone, then as would the deer or the sheep, he could well fall prey.’

‘Aye Jack, they are indeed killers, but this one… this one is not the same. I have seen it, boy.’ Or perhaps the ale I had drunk that night was more the culprit of my rambling. But in truth, I think not. ‘Not far from where we are – a sighting which turned my blood to melt-water.’

‘You saw a wolf, squire?’

‘That I did Jack, and no ordinary wolf was this one. Though most will shake their heads and sneer at what I tell.’

On impulse, DeLacy reached across for his sword and drew the claidheamh mòr half way out from its scabbard. In the moonlight, the blade erupted with tiny lights of brilliant silver; icy fingers of superstition reached beneath his cape and for a moment he struggled to quell the fear that followed them.

‘Six feet high at the shoulder, Jack. From that day onward, nothing has terrified me more than the sight of that hellish creature walking beside me. Nor did it walk on all fours lad, but straight-backed and powerful of limb. Its forelegs hung as arms and those terrible jaws, though shorter than any wolf’s, were filled with a wolf’s fangs;  as God be my witness, sharp as a harlot’s tongue and long and white as dead men’s fingers.’

He drew the neck of his cape closer in to his throat, as if the leather edging was strong enough to protect it.

‘But the eyes, Jack, they were the worst… the grist of any man’s nightmares; yellow in the moonlight, the eyes of some devilish manifestation, those of Satan himself…’

Brings out the Wolf in me...First Snippet..!

I Wolf

*

Bowland Forest, England, November 1703

                                                                            

1 

‘How much further, Jack?’

‘Three more miles before we see the lighted windows of Whitewell Village, squire.’

‘And none too soon it’ll be, lad. This cursed mist has frozen me through to the bone.’

Conrad DeLacy lowered the brim of his hat and drew in his cape against the drizzle. Not even the devil himself will be afoot on a night such as this. The great Suffolk mare that carried him stepped out solidly, head down to the rain.

‘My thoughts are such that we should have stayed the night in Clithero, lad.’

‘Aye, it would have suited better, squire, though now the moon is up, it will not take long for the wet to break.’

Where the forest opened, moonlight flooded in; ancient trees stood silent and black-shouldered. DeLacy’s eyes tricked with the shadows and from out of them, grotesque, leering shapes rose to walk alongside him.

‘Keep your eyes peeled, Jack and your sword to hand.'

Strapped diagonally to the mare’s left flank, the silver cage of DeLacy’s sabre nuzzled against his hip; the black, double-handed hilt of a claidheamh mòr, the Great Sword. Lifted by his father from the battlefields of Killiecrankie, the blade had been lavishly inlaid with silver, the steel sharp enough for it to clip a rose from the bower without so much as dislodging a single, trembling droplet of dew…

A bit more scary...

Tired of waiting for the rain to go. Filling in with bit-blogs in the meantime is driving me nuts.
So... time to do what I enjoy most, put out a story. Stepping outside my comfort zone with this one, but saw how many of you enjoyed Off with the Witches, a slightly scary horror story. This one is better, it's ongoing and a bit more scary... I think. Anyway, stay with me. Hope you like...

"I Wolf"

My fourth book, as good as it gets...

The time for my most fullfilling, African adventure novel is now. The pages accumulate faster than ever before, the writing excites me - the heat, the danger, the smell of old dust - all of these things are in there. Still waiting to get out treasure hunting, but the weather sucks. Mud like you have never seen and everyone's in a flap over the impending wine shortage - makes a change from flapping over Brexit, I suppose. Think I'll build a canoe and paddle upstream away from all the flappers..!

'The wine, the wine! It's all gone..!'

Tiny Legs - Massive Heart!

Like me, this little guy is gearing-up for the 'Big Snow'...Without socks! Incessant rain, every day. Goes on forever. Need some dry weather so's I can get down to the river with my treasure detector! My daughter's Birthday today so the pic is for her. Miss you sweetheart...

The run-up to Winter...

Looking back, over my shoulder, but I wonder what lies to the fore...Snow, cold winds and lashing rain. Though like so many times before, it will pass. I cannot grumble.

Back where it all started...

So, let's go back to where it all started... hunting down gold and other old stuff. Those of you living way out in exciting, far-flung outer worlds will know what I'm talking about... hot winds and dust up yer nose, busted-up old Land Rover, busted-up old hands from wielding a pick and digging up dirt, busted-up brain from dreaming too much. Most of that has gone, but not all of it - a few, straggly bits of old dreams still scratch at my synapses and urge me out into the wilderness. Well, an almost-wilderness... two miles to the nearest settlement. No Matabele war parties rattling their shields at me, no marauding Lakota sweeping out from box canyons in the Black Hills... just the odd encounter with red-socked hikers and bewildered squirrel counters, that's as as tough as it gets. More's the pity. Anyway, let me introduce you to our Henry... rescued him from the slopes of the Nyanda Hills in the old Rhodesia, but that's another story. Found me some old gold too... swapped most of it for beer 'n baccy. Few small pieces left, just so's I don't forget...                                                                                 

OUR  HENRY

                                                                             

All Seeing Eye

"Not through the eyes of a raging lion, but through the eyes of a small bird, are we able to see the truth..."

Friendship...This is how easy it should be...

Those two little doves inspired me...Like the Beatles said: Love is all around...Strange, how come the human race can't get their heads around something so simple? Check out these two...Best of buddies, of different colour, but matters not to them...Same field, same world, same as ours. Known them for four years now, but the Winter shoot starts in two weeks. Wonder if they will survive long enough to see their next Spring..?

Small Interuption..!

Hi, off at a tangent, I know, but had to get this off my chest...

Sparrow Hawk took one of our more gentle visitors...A female dove. Left her mate heartbroken; watched him through our kitchen window, his wife and little world destroyed, torn to pieces. He  came back just the once, then realised she was gone. Went away...Don't think we'll see him again...God speed.

Roman marching-camp..? Bronze Age settlement..? Gold-crazy treasure hunter..? Or all three?

Piece of ground down by the river...driving me nuts. The shadowy outline of an old perimeter wall, iron mooring loops, chert cutting tool, iron ring, charcoal, bronze lump of something-or-other and a funny feeling to boot..! Spade and metal detector now on high alert! Will stick up some pics for you, next post; looks like I'll have to get me a GoPro camcorder. Will have to find some Viking gold to pay for all of this. And, oh, I forgot, write a book at the same time...Should be sat in front of the fire with my pipe, zip-up slippers and old cardy...Sounds like the movie; "no country for old men". Got no time fer gitt'n old...Back later with those pics I promised so don't stray too far. Keep your eyes on my blog; there's something out there..! Help me find it..!

Let's keep it light-hearted..!

Can't go prospecting for gold anymore, Africa's too far away...SO!!! Bought myself a metal detector as a wind-me-down from heavy spells of writing...Stay tuned for a flurry of stories and photo's from yours truly; The Crazy Treasure Hunter..!

Food for thought..?

'There are many, many good writers out there...To be brought before the public eye and find their place takes so much more than half the bloody battle...'

Tough for us to say goodbye...

Oh well...tears all round today; Dancer Dog goes home tonight, Maureen, her Mom is back from New Zealand. Must move on and write, write, write to take my mind off Dancer's going home. Will invite her over for a barbecue once the Summer decides to show up. Dry my eyes; tough, macho tears cut deep. Heres a pic of Dancer Dog - going to miss her terribly.

Is there anybody out there..?

Not sure, been such a long time since I posted - you guys still interested? What would you like me to write. And what about pictures.... Wildlife? Urban? Rural? Let me know and I'll do my best.

Into my fourth book now... Can't say much at the moment, just that it will be pretty big; the storyline panoramic. Africa-based of course... Romance, war, little bit of politics, but not enough to put you to sleep. In all, a bloody good read, I promise. Anyway, I'm listening, so get back to me and I'll do my best to entertain. With your help I'll get this long lost page up and running again. Talk soon. Watching and waiting with much interest. JW

All is Calm, All is Bright...

Wasn’t too bad when I first got there, I was ready to take on the course; whatever the weather threw at me, I would survive. Kitted up with waterproofs, storm bucket hat, gloves over gloves, snood, thermal vest and thirty quid’s worth of supposedly, waterproof socks. Oh, and my supposedly waterproof shoes; well they were, for the first five minutes at least. All of this for a solitary game of golf on Christmas Eve, just because I could. No one else, just me, along with my thoughts and maybe my old man looking down from his little piece of dry Heaven and shaking his head in wonder. Then the weather bared its teeth and chased me down the first fairway – a storm to end all storms.

The rain turned to ice and lashed my legs with birdshot, but resolutely I hung on in there; I would finish my customary nine holes or die in the attempt. Miraculously, the shots I managed to play behaved themselves and, with my soggy soul still intact I kept on going… right to the last hole. Then the sun came out and the rain went away and still I was on my own, no one else there. Half drowned and frozen through with one emaciated leg of my storm-proof umbrella twisted side-on at an awkward angle; still, I felt good, privileged even.

Rather to be there on a flooded ninth green, soaked and frostbitten, but with one more precious memory safely in the bag, than warm and dry in some hospital bed on this stormy Christmas Eve...

To everyone who from time to time will read my blog, or better still my books, I wish you and yours the safest, most merry of all your Christmases and God bless for the New Year. Stay with me, book number three is almost complete.

*

Off With the Witches!

Hung up my keyboard yesterday and disappeared into Lancashire’s moorland wilderness for a spot of mental recharging. Took my camera, folding chair, gas cooker, frying pan, three sausages, two eggs, bacon, bread, flask of coffee and Jones the dog, and from beneath the flip-up rear door on my van, watched the rain hammer down on purple hills.

Won’t start waxing lyrical, but autumn suits our fells and becks. The grass leans away from the wind and the trees grab hard as they can on the more-rock-than-soil hillsides and it howls over stone walls, the wind I mean, and Jones’ ears flip out sideways when the wind catches him poking his nose at the weather. I parked alongside the same road used by the witch finders back in the seventeenth century; bunch of sad old ladies sent to greet the hangman’s rope in Lancaster for the heinous crime of keeping a black cat or giving the king’s tax collector the curse of the vertical finger. Poor sods; how kind the human race; how convenient for those who did not like them. Imagine the mayhem if the villagers back then all had mobile phones...

Speaking of ‘witch’, tagged on my little story; a few minutes of ghoulish entertainment for those of you with nowt better t’ do!

Legacy

‘As a sickly child, Pendle’s high moor looked down, dank and pallid-faced from its darkling Lancashire sky. For most it was a time of heartache and hardship; though for some, it was a time of merciless opportunity...’

Pendle Hill, 1613

‘Take your brat, your pigs and whatever you may carry. Be gone from these parts before sunrise or I shall have you taken before the next summer assizes at Lancaster.’

‘And the Devil’s pox upon you, Robert Moresby, for more’n a hundred years my mother and them before her roamed their pigs on Pendle Hill. Where would I go? Where would old Jennet Device find food and shelter if it were not here?’

‘The hangman’s rope’s still warm, Device, out there on Gallows Hill, but a short cart ride from Lancaster’s Witches’ Tower. It waits for you, Device, just as surely as the Devil waits for your mother’s soul to rot itself free of the grave.’

‘Murderers! You and that Roger Nowell and more’n a dozen others. My family lies in hell because of your doings.’

‘Sunrise tomorrow or by all that’s holy I will send you after them.’ Moresby glared down from the saddle; the stallion, black as Satan’s eyes arched its neck, from flared nostrils steamed the breath of a cavalry warhorse – pale plumes, ghost-like in the mist. On stiff legs the horse trembled, agitated by Device’s scent; unwashed flesh and peat smoke – the raw, cancerous smell of poverty.

‘Then I will be waiting,’ said Device, ‘and rather that I die on Pendle’s fair slopes than as food for crows that crowd the hangman’s gibbet at Lancaster.’

‘Sunrise, then.’ Moresby turned the stallions head. ‘If you are still here, witch, I’ll see that you get your wish.’ 

*

‘There’s smoke in the chimney, squire. Device is watching for you – the hag’s done little or nothing to heed your warning.’

Moresby angled his hat to ward off the rain. As well as from the chimney, smoke seeped out through gaps in the thatching. The walls, built of Pendle grit stood awkwardly corner-on to a dawn wind. A sow with her piglets grunted for slops near a woodpile, their skin chapped pink by the cold. A single, tortured hawthorn bent its back before the wind.

Moresby slid from the stallion’s back and thrust the reins at his game keeper’s lad.

‘Wait outside for me, William. Whatever happens, stand firm, do not move unless I bid you do so.’

‘I shall stand my ground, squire, though my flesh is that of a plucked goose from knowing the hag is there behind that wall.’

‘You fear her?’ Moresby smiled at the boy’s uncertainty. ‘As frail a woman as Jennet Device?’

The boy leaned in close to Moresby’s stallion, its great size protection enough; in his mind’s eye the air itself was filled with malice.

‘She has been marked by the Devil, sir. I knows of those who’s seen it. You m’n watch yourself, squire or Device’ll put the evil eye on yer.’

‘Then let her try, William.’ He dropped his hand to the pommel of his sword.  ‘The hell hag will take on more than she has bargained for.’

Six stone steps led up to the open doorway; from inside, the stench of pig fat and piss rolled as a pungent wave to greet him.

‘Come on out, Device or be judged where you lie.’

‘As you are judged already, Moresby, can you not be feeling my mother’s breath inside that fancy shirt o’yourn? You have the devil hi’self inside you, sir – I see him standing there, his lips on yer pap, sucking on yer, Moresby. Do you not feel him? Do you not feel him drawing the life from yer!’

‘I say again, witch, come on out or on God’s word I’ll ferret thee out with the point of my sword!’

‘Damn you, Moresby. Leave me be, or as sure as you killed my sister and old Anne Chattox, one at a time I’ll take yer family wi’ me.’

Scarf-like, the drizzle wrapped about his neck; Moresby shivered, for the cold had come upon him as a curse. The sounds that came from the dark were neither animal nor human, but somewhere in between. It was then he felt the first, tiny insects of dread scuttle beneath his shirt. He reached for the sword and with the heavy blade unsheathed, forced himself to step inside the hovel.

‘Show yourself, Device and keep your witches’ spells for the judge at Lancaster.’

‘There’ll be no judge, squire Moresby and forewarned you are.’ Like glass on steel, Device’s voice keened through the darkness. ‘What you do this day will not go unrewarded. Look to the boy, Moresby, or have you left him there alone with that horse o’yourn! See the beast, Moresby. Black as Satan’s eyes for is it not so that you yourself ‘as named him Lucifer?’

With a ventriloquist’s skill she flung her voice back and forth across the room; behind and then in front – from the floor and up inside the soot-covered eaves above his head; that of a girl then that of the harridan. From a deep, bell-like bass to an effeminate, reedy tremble, winsome then fey her voice wavered.

‘Look to the boy, Moresby,’ now the voice of a man, but deep and hideous – that of Satan himself it echoed about the room, ‘what mortal fool would stand alone in the company of Abaddon and Barghest?’

‘Save your tricks for the children, Device. Your witches’ voices hold no threat for me.’

‘Not so for the lad!’ now the voice of a girl, without substance, flimsy as the mist and fine rain it flew about his ears.

 The hag has been marked by the devil the boy had told him, and it was then that Moresby felt the first, leaden hands of superstition drag at his legs; when he heard the cry, he spun on his heels and ran outside.

The lad’s eyes were wide open, those that had glimpsed beyond the edge of hell itself. The stallion stood over him, its great neck arched – the veins along its throat were black snakes beneath the skin, the beast’s eyes blacker than a Pendle night. An inch behind his left ear, the boy’s skull had been stove in. Moresby swung the sword underhand, less than an inch from the stallion’s throat. The sound it made was that of a falcon’s wings at a full stoop.

Like an addict freed of the opiate’s veil the stallion quietened and stepped away. Now, with soft eyes it watched its master cover the terrible wound with the boy’s own cape – the animal’s breathing steadied – the evil had left it.

Beyond the cottage doorway, the smoke inside was thicker now, flames as yellowed fingers reached up waist high from the open hearth. Moresby screwed his eyes and shouted through the fog, for other than that created by fire he could see no movement.

‘A curse on you, witch, you have killed the boy and for that you will pay with your life.’

‘And the likes of you and Nowell have killed my kith and kin. The boy is but the first of many, Moresby; you and others will follow.’

He took a long slow breath, and then, with his sword drawn stepped inside the hag’s reeking parlour.

‘By the rights bestowed on me by the High Sheriff of Lancaster, I will make you pay, Device! As sure as I live and breathe I will leave you dead within these walls!’

From the hearth he lifted a red-eyed ember and plunged it deep inside the roof thatch. Within that same minute, flames blossomed, feeding on the dry grass – quickly they found the apex.

Moresby stepped back through the doorway; silhouetted against a rain sky he peered through the smoke; from inside of it, wraithlike, Jennet Device seemed to float above the floor.

Moresby was struck dumb by the spectacle, his feet frozen to the stone step on which he stood. Backed by fire, as a spirit trapped between the worlds of life and death, Jennet Device came towards him, her voice that of a shrieking wind from Pendle’s high collar.

‘Hell’s torments seize thee, Robert Moresby! Though you have done me of my life I say to you of two things! The first – that within this next hour you, yourself will join me amongst the dead. Already your likeness burns away in this very place you have destroyed. These hellish flames will take you, Moresby and nowt shall stop them!

Inside, the fire turned wild and as some devilish vortex roared ecstatically, yet Jennet Device came on. From about her form the flames ate off her rags; as carded wool her hair stood up on end then flew as a thousand sparks from the roasted casket of her skull. Yet she showed no signs of pain and as some charred immortal thing came on for the man who stood in her doorway.

‘The second I pass to you as a foresight. When the time is right, Moresby, I shall return to Pendle Hill. Upon your children’s children will befall the hellish ghosts of Chattox, Device and others of Malkin Tower. Those of us you persecuted; those you sent to Gallows Hill at Lancaster.’ The light had gone from her eyes and yet living words still came out from her mouth. ‘They will perish as we have done. I, Jennet Device speak for all my kin – thus I curse your line, Moresby.’

Unable to shake himself free of the horror, Moresby gathered his weight and drove his sword through the harridan’s shrivelled chest. For an arm’s length the steel leapt from between her shoulder blades – only when her breastbone crashed to the sword’s steel hilt did she fall against him, her sudden exhalation foul as the devil’s own breath upon his face, her lips drawn back by the heat in a grinning rictus of death.

Still his feet refused to carry him from harm’s way. Held in the witch’s thrall, he watched the flesh fall from her face – his own clothes took fire, like cats’ claws the pain crawled over him, as though it were alive the inferno wrapped about his legs and drew him down inside the flames.

*

Rough Lee, Pendle Hill – October, 2014

Jack Moresby stood with his back to an open fire, through the living room window he watched a busy wind pick up leaves and whistle them down the driveway. The cloud was high enough for him to glimpse the ominous, upper slopes of Pendle Hill. But the dark was wheeling in; soon it would be black as a witch’s cat outside. Anyone blessed with a modicum of common sense would be inside, as he was, in front of the fire with the back of his legs burning. All Hallows’ Eve, another hour and its magical aura would be well and truly cast over Pendle Hill; mysterious to some, to others, exciting and spooky – perhaps intimidating – frightening even. Defender headlights lit up the driveway. The front door slammed shut against the wind and Jack’s sister blustered into the room.

‘The car parks are already full of wannabe witch finders, they’re a bloody nuisance, literally had to force my way between the cars.’ Karen dropped her waxed jacket on the settee and made for the drinks cabinet. ‘I need a brandy – do you want one?’

Jack nodded his head. He accepted the pleasantry, though as Karen’s adopted brother shared little common ground with her. Karen seldom let him forget that he was still the Moresby cuckoo; her father’s past philanthropic leanings had already proved a drain on her inheritance. Jack spoke to her without looking away from the window.

‘Your horse all rugged-up and bedded down?’

‘As best I could with all this wind. I’ll give the weather an hour to settle before I finish up.’

‘I can lend a hand if you want?’

Karen cocked an eye at him. ‘We’ll wind up fighting. Horsey women and their non-horsey, adopted siblings just don’t get on.’ She handed him a brandy, ‘If it’s all the same to you I’ll manage on my own. Twenty minutes and I’ll be back for a fireside supper and a nightcap.’

Karen flopped down on the settee, parked her drink then retrieved a book from the coffee table.

‘Not like you to do any voluntary reading, what brought this on?’

‘Buried in my desk drawer. Some of your grandfather’s ramblings.’

Karen recognized the plain, leather-bound cover; she had seen the book before. Though as a self-confessed fiction addict, showed only mediocre interest in its contents.

‘Not my scene, documentary type books bore me silly. Dad raved about it, swore his father’s literary prowess ran neck-and-neck with Alfred Wainwright’s.’

Randomly, she thumbed back the pages and then stopped at a sketch of Pendle Hill. The quality of the artwork caught her attention.

With raw talent and the diaphanous influence of soft-leaded pencils, the old man had captured the heart and soul of Lancashire’s ancient skyline, recreating that which was real through his artist’s world of pencils and paper. Now, snared by his genius, Karen’s imagination began to run free. In a portentous, pencilled sky she watched rain squalls shrug themselves free of the clouds; finely veiled in moonlight. Hurried along by the wind they followed the humps and swales of tumbled walls and flooded sphagnum mosses. Through that innermost eye of the gifted artist the book revealed the capricious intent of deep autumn, the loneliness of the moor and though silent upon the page, that doleful voice of a north wind. What Karen saw invoked in her a strange feeling of déjà vu; a slight movement of cool air brushed the nape of her neck so that she shivered.

‘Grey goose walked over my grave.’

‘Halloween jitters.’ Jack rolled his eyes theatrically. ‘The witches are after you.’ He fed the fire; flames licked up the chimney. ‘The old man seems to have had a natural affinity with the macabre; all his sketches are borderline scary.’ He sat down next to Karen and drew her attention to a particular point on the page. ‘The cottage – look at the light coming from the doorway.’

Karen leaned in closer and scrutinised the drawing. ‘Could be way off line, but I’d say the cottage was on fire – and there’s someone stood in the doorway – doesn’t make sense.’

‘And over here,’ Jack went on, ‘what do you see?’

‘Good God, Jack! That could be my own horse, Satan.’

Almost buried by deep shadow, a stallion, wet and black as Lancashire coal reared against the skyline; though drawn to a small a scale, Karen was quick to pick up on the beast’s aggression – the madness a fire in its eyes; illuminated by the cold, the stallion’s breath billowed as grey steam.

‘Read the caption at the bottom.’

Karen screwed her eyes at the text; the old man’s writing, from sixty years of storage was barely legible. Forced to take her time, she read aloud;

They will perish as we have done. I, Jennet Device speak for all my kin – thus I curse your line, Moresby.

She dropped the book back on the table and reached for her glass.

‘Clap trap. Why Moresby? Why use the family name?’ Superstition breathed inside her collar. ‘How could the old man have possibly known what was said?’

‘Made it up,’ Jack proffered, ‘a bit of provenance to go with his writing. Even more disturbing – I found out that the house father left to us was built with stone from Device’s ruined cottage.’

‘Jennet Device – of the Lancashire witches?’

Jack nodded his head. ‘She died in the fire. What you saw in your grandfather’s drawing actually happened. I went online and checked your ancestry; the story goes, John Moresby worked hand-in-glove with a chap called, Roger Nowell – one of Lancashire’s more notorious witch hunters.’

Karen’s eyes widened – her voice reflected her abhorrence of Jack’s revelation.

‘He burned the house down. This house – the one we’re living in now?’

‘Along with its tenant, Jennet Device – roasted her alive. Your forebear, the Moresby guy, died with her. His body was found just inside the doorway.’

Karen looked about the room. ‘I wish I had known what happened before I moved in here. You would never have got me within a mile of this place.’

‘Perhaps your grandfather’s stories are pure hearsay.’ His eyes glittered; green in the firelight.

Karen stood up and shrugged on her jacket. She drained her glass and turned for the door.

‘I’m going back down to the stables, maybe the wind will blow some sense into what went on here.’

‘There’s a storm coming, let me come with you.’

Karen dismissed the idea, the tone of her voice resentful. ‘No need. I can manage. I’ll be back when I’m good and ready.’ She scowled at him. ‘And get rid of that book of yours or I’ll burn it.’

Jack stood at the window until the Defender’s headlights disappeared, the night outside still wildly unpredictable. Taller hedgerows bent and whipped like shirt tails, wind hissed and howled as wolves hunting the dark slopes of Pendle Hill. He crossed the room and felt inside the bottom drawer of an oak writing bureau.

The photograph had been shot in black and white; to a background of high moor, rows of orphaned children stood statue-like for the camera. Ranked along both sides were the austere images of their guardians. The children’s names were listed at the bottom – from left to right and again, all were neatly aligned in corresponding order. The grey patina of age dulled the text.

One by one, Jack read off the names, remembering those that had stuck in his mind. Some had faded completely, all of those wan and sickly children, like himself, discarded by a malicious society. Most were already long dead.

Habitually, he traced the print with his fingertip, settling it over his own likeness. The fire licked and crackled excitedly; driven by the oncoming storm, the wind howled inside the chimney pot.

On the photograph’s sombre moorland, hidden from the casual onlooker by cloud shadows, a woman had stopped to catch her breath; looking back through the rain it seemed as if she resented the presence of the picture-taker. Her limbs were crippled with age and a veil of poverty and terrible hardship hung about her. Jack nodded his head, the smile on his face now thin with malice. He spoke with slow deliberation, the voice coming out from his mouth not his own.

‘They will perish as we have done. I, Jennet Device speak for all my kin – thus I curse your line, Moresby.’

On the fire, the photograph curled and blackened; the face of the old woman and that of Jack Device disappeared. He waited another hour before driving down to the stables.

Karen lay on her side; Jack pressed his fingertips to her neck, but there was no pulse, already the life had fled from her. The side of Karen’s head had been stove in; the stallion stood alongside her, its eyes quiet – the madness had left it.

Jack reached for his phone.

‘Emergency services. Which service do you require?’

‘Ambulance, there’s been an accident.’

As a malevolent silhouette, his likeness, thin and hawk-like stood to the far wall, though his eyes were bright, green as sea glass – pin sharp – the eyes of the necromancer. Beyond the stable door, portentous winds bickered amongst the hawthorn.

Like a warm breeze, Satan’s breath ruffled the fine hairs at the back of his neck. Jack turned about and for long moments peered deep inside the stallion’s eye. As would a quiescent yearling foal, so the stallion nuzzled his shoulder; softly, Jack spoke to it, his choice of words thick with local accent and defunct colloquialisms of old England.

‘Get thee gone, Jennet Device. Trouble my house no more for your legacy is well spent.’ He threw open the stable doors and a half moon managed a look through the clouds. On Lancashire’s bleak moorland, not far from the castle at Lancaster, dark shadows danced a jig on Gallows Hill – their voices stripped away by the wind.

*