Which Witch Are You?

#OCTOBERFRIGHTSBLOGHOPPOST

LINKS AT www.katiemjohn.com 

In my latest series, 'The Meadowsweet Chronicles' the primary story is about warring Witches who are fighting over control of a portal to The Ancient Ones. 

The role of Witches in folklore, fairy-tales and social history has always fascinated me. Especially in terms of how patriarchal society has used the notion of Witches and Witchcraft in ways to define and control women. 

As someone who would describe themselves as leaning towards a  Pagan Christian faith system, I have always been fascinated by the idea of magic and what that means in the modern world. To me, the power of Nature is magical, the power for light to conquer darkness, and for our own hearts to heal another, is a real. 

The Meadowsweet Chronicles playfully explores these notions  of magic, witchcraft, history, stereotypes, female empowerment, love, sisterhood and  and ultimately puts forward a message about how we all have to find a way to conquer our own fears and the fears others place on us. It's a modern day fairytale with a very real message. 

PLAY WHICH WITCH ARE YOU? 

1. You meet a Demon, what do you do?

a) Smash his pretty face to pieces

b) Try to change him

c) Enslave him

d) Use his blood for powerful magic

2. Your familiar is?

a) Hare

b) Black Cat

c) Snake

d) Raven

3. Favourite Colour?

a) Black

b) Purple

c) Red

d) Blue

4. You discover a very powerful, terrible secret, do you? 

a) Keep out, it's not of your business

b) Blackmail and extort the situation

c) Stand up and tell the world about it - truth is all

d) Depends who the secret belongs to - I'm loyal to my friends. 

5. Which saying is closest to your philosophy?

a) Open your heart to the world and love

b) Keep your friends close and your enemies closer

c) Family first

d) Do whatever it takes. 

Question 1: a (3) b (1) c (2) d (4) 

               2: a (1) b (2) c (3) d (4)

               3: a (2) b (4) c (3) d (1)

               4: a (4) b (2) c (1) d (3)

               5: a (1) b (3)  c (4) d (2)

MOSTLY 

1s . Meadowsweets - You are a force of light and good. You value truth above all else. You are quick and smart and able to use your head as well as your heart. Your flaw is that sometimes you believe too much in the power of redemption. 

2s. Raven hearts - You are smart, fierce, strong and determined. You know what you want and you know how to get it. Your'e attracted to the dark side of nature. You're suspicious of people who seem to want to good with no personal gain, but you're smart enough to smell a rat. You are a leader. Your flaw is that sometimes you find it hard to let things go. 

3s. Southern Territories - You are a team player and you believe in the power of the group, although it's sometimes hard for you to trust others at first. You find it difficult to fit in places, but when you find home, you love it fiercely. You believe in traditional values and fair play, although you do have quiet ambitions. You are very clear about what is right and what is wrong. Your flaw is sometimes you get swept along by the desires of others. 

4s. Debois Sisters - You are all about keeping the power in a tight space. You see the world in shades rather than black and white. You understand that there is no light without dark, and no good without evil. You are drawn to people, animals, ideas that are not conventional or that do not fit the mould. You are calculating and strong. You are a power to be reckoned with, but you have a very deep and strong belief in doing right by the universe. 

MEET THE COVENS

In The Meadowsweet Chronicles there are several covens who are part of the narrative. Obviously, the most predominant coven is the Meadowsweet Sisterhood,  but I thought it would be a cool thing to formally introduce you to the covens of the series. 

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THE MEADOWSWEETS

England. 

The Meadowsweet Coven includes Fox, Swan and Bunny Meadowsweet, three sisters, but it also includes their mother Wren, and their three cousins, Prim, Violet and Rose. 

They are one of the oldest covens in the Witch community and have been based in Heargton at the site of 'The Portal'. Their primary role is to act as guardians of The Portal; a door through which The Ancient Ones can access the Earthly Realm. The three sisters are known as The Guardians; although due to their mother's generation turning away from the role, the positioned is weakened and under threat. 

Their coven has always been a force of light and healing. Their powers enhanced due to their powerful bloodline and ancient magical heritage. However, with a war raging, the light is sometimes not enough. 

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THE RAVENHEARTS

England.

Lilith, Nigella, and Thalia Ravenheart 

Trinity Coven. 

Also based in Heargton, at the site of the portal, and having been around as long as The Meadowsweets, these once allied Covens have over the centuries become increasingly distant. The Ravenheart's nefarious history, and their generational choice to turn towards the dark has caused them to become an opposition to The Meadowsweets; and their desire to take over the control of The Portal has ensured that their greed, ambition and evil know no bounds. 

The Ravenhearts are also attached to a Demon, which they believe to be their slave, but perspectives can be wrong. 

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THE SOUTHERN TERRITORIES

Mexico

A Gathering Coven

Headed by the priestess Geavonna, The Southern Territories is a rag-tag gathering of Witches who have found themselves displaced of their own lineage covens. The witches originate from all over the South Americna territories, and come from traditional covens pushed out by the wave of colonial Catholicism that swept the Southern American countries in the 17th and 18th century. It is a large coven of around twenty witches, and they are headed by Geavonna; an ambitious, vengeful and aggressive power. In fighting and politics riddle the Southern Territories.  

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THE DEBOIS SISTERS

Haiti

Roseline, Belle and Nadine

A Trinity Coven

The Debois sisters are the daughters of a powerful and historical sister trinity in Haiti. Their maternal ancestor was mistress to a colonial slaver, and eventually, with his wife mysteriously killed, the Debois women took over the plantation and estate, establishing themselves as an important powerhouse in the community. Notoriously protective of their trinity, they refuse to ally themselves with any other coven, but are prepared to trade magic and knowledge for their own agenda. 

Their magical heritage is based in Voodoo and is powerful and mysterious. There is a leaning to the dark side but the rules of life and death are different to the Debois sisters, and dark and light are seen as defining of one another rather than being opposites. 

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THE FARM

Salem USA

A Gathering Coven

The Farm is a sanctuary for Witches in fear of their life or who have been displaced or persecuted. It is a large community of around 50 Witches who all live together in a commune called 'The Farm'. 'The Farm' is headed by Tituba, a descendent of Tituba from the Salem Witch Trials. 

The Farm is home to Suki, Ethan, Rowan and Melody Drake, who play an important role in the Meadowsweet sisters' narrative. 

An InLinkz Link-up

CHAPTER TASTER: Exclusive showcase of the first Chapter of the new series 'Beautiful Freaks'

Today I am sharing with you the opening chapter of 'Beautiful Freaks' the serial based on the original novel, 'Beautiful Freaks' which was published in 2012.

This series has taken that novel as the starting point; the series has a much bigger cast of fantastical creatures, well recognised gothic characters and a lot more action. 3 seasons of 'Beautiful Freaks' is planned. Each series is 12 episodes and each episode is 10,000 (the size of a small novella)

The first TWO episodes will be downloadable on THURSDAY 3rd DECEMEBER (You can Pre-order them both now HERE)  and then an episode will be released every Thursday afterwards until the end of the series. In order that you don't miss one, they are all available on PRE-ORDER at Amazon.worldwide.

Visit the Beautiful Freaks Facebook Page

So without further ado - let me introduce you to the opening chapter of 'Beautiful Freaks'

SEASON 1 EPISODE 1

 

1

LONDON 1899

 

BOTH the century and its Queen were dying. The winds of change rattled through the streets of the metropolis, leaving its citizens fearful of the coming times. Uncertainty bred suspicion, causing the people to return to the old ways. Mystics and fortune-tellers swarmed out of the city mists and filled the billboards of the now sober dancehalls. Nobody felt like dancing anymore. Gypsies hawked silver charms and lucky heather, and iron-faced preacher-men stood at every corner shouting warnings of damnation. It was a grey world, full of shadows.

The city was a landscape of monsters, both of flesh and brick. Chimneys from a thousand slave factories belched out black smoke; stealing the breath from the lungs and the light from the sky. Workhouses swallowed the poor; asylums the insane. It was amongst this labyrinth of sorrow Kaspian Blackthorne walked.

He was approaching his eighteenth birthday, although he felt he had been an adult for most of his life. His patron, Professor Heartlock, was making arrangements for a small private engagement in celebration of the boy’s coming of age. It would be an interesting evening, although not a very exciting one.

Heartlock was a paranormal investigator – had been a paranormal investigator – he was now mostly housebound. For the past three years, the professor had been confined to a wheelchair following a serious accident whilst in pursuit of a notorious serial killer. That was the official story. In truth, the professor had broken his back falling from the roof of a church in pursuit of a werewolf.

 Professor Heartlock had once been a fascinating man to a younger Kaspian, but now his fantastical tales had faded into the sad ramblings of a man full of regret about losing his youth. When he told his tales, the lines between reality and fantasy increasingly blurred, to the point Kaspian worried the old man was losing his genius mind.

 Kaspian had been just a baby when his mother and father were brutally murdered by an escaped Bedlam lunatic. The madman had believed William and Eliza Blackthorne were evil demons disguised as respectable people. He’d followed them for months, skulking in the shadows, before striking one night on their return from the opera. Despite there being several witnesses to the violent attack, the murderer still managed to dispose of their bodies so that they were never found. The whole case had been riddled with inexplicable circumstances and so quickly became a national news sensation. The murderer made no attempt to hide or escape; he maintained he was working for the glory of God. Regardless of his belief, they hanged him in front of a large cheering crowd.

With no other relatives, Kaspian had been destined for the workhouse orphanage until Heartlock came to his rescue.

Heartlock had been a good patron, although perhaps a little lacking in his understanding of children and childhood. As such, Kaspian’s nursery had been a study. His playthings, strange scientific apparatuses and his childhood stories, great leather-bound texts on religion and the supernatural. It sometimes seemed Heartlock had been set on raising a protégé to carry on his life’s work rather than a young man. As a result, although Kaspian’s upbringing hadn’t been cruel, it had been serious; and although showered in fondness and attention, it had lacked love.

Kaspian pondered his eighteen years as he walked through the evening gloom of the London streets. The rain had forced most people inside, creating the impression that the great metropolis had turned into a ghost town. Kaspian liked walking through the streets at times like this. It made him feel as if he were walking through his own misty and silent empire.

He’d been on an errand for his patron and was now returning, laden down with books. His cargo didn’t stop him skipping over the puddles with an unusual childlike joy, or humming to himself. He was happy and free.

Then he saw her.

She was standing under the streetlight, a newspaper held out in front of her as if she were reading it. Kaspian thought it obvious she wasn’t; she was watching the church on the other side of the cobbled street. He stopped midstride and pulled himself behind a tree; spied on her as she took a pocket-watch from her pocket and flipped open the lid. She cradled it in the palm of her hand and raised it until it was level with her eyes before studying it carefully. This struck Kaspian as an odd way to read the time, most people just looked down with a quick glance, and it led him to believe the device she held was not a watch at all, but another form of apparatus.

He looked over to the church she was watching. It looked empty and he couldn’t fathom what could possibly be of interest. The lights were out, the door locked, and the whole place had the impression of sleeping. He turned his attention back to the woman. She was tall and slender; striking in a slightly over-powerful way. Despite wearing a full, black-silk skirt, the fitted waistcoat and black necktie were manlier in dress than ladylike. He’d never seen a woman like her, although he had heard of ‘her sort’ as Heartlock’s companions would say.

Kaspian took advantage of her intense concentration to move his head around the tree and peer at her more closely. He could see she wore a monocle in her left eye and was at least ten years younger than he’d guessed from the first impression; about twenty-one. She must have sensed him looking at her because she turned towards him and smiled at the rather ludicrous sight of him poking out from behind the tree. Kaspian was already precariously balanced on the tip of his toes, and in an attempt to dash back behind the tree, he stumbled straight into her line of vision. 

He bent down and pretended he’d been about to tie his shoelaces, trying to mask his clumsiness. As he looked up at her from under his flop of dark, wavy hair, he saw she was still smiling at him; a strange reaction to the discovery someone was spying on you. The boldness of her action unsettled Kaspian in a way he couldn’t quite put his finger on. When he was sure she had returned to her own secret observations, he scuttled past her and almost ran to the safety of home.

 By the time he pushed open the imposing front door, Kaspian carried the strangest sense that something deep within him had changed – that things would never be quite as before.

“Good evening, Kaspian,” Heartlock said, greeting the boy in the hallway. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, Sir,” he answered, dropping the small pile of books onto the hall table.

“Did you manage to get all I requested?”

“Yes, all of them apart from the Valentine book. Mr. Foxglove said he was sure he would have it by the end of the week.”

Mr. Foxglove was one of Heartlock’s oldest acquaintances. He ran a bookshop situated in one of Soho’s shadier alleyways. The sign above the door read, ‘Rare and Precious Books’ which made it sound almost respectable. In truth, the great leather-bound books of poetry and Shakespeare folios were a front for the back room; the place that held real interest for its rather darker clientele.

Although the shop had a small, narrow front, it had a seemingly endless body, which always gave Kaspian the unnerving impression he was being swallowed by a giant snake. Right at its tail was the occult section. Not only did Mr. Foxglove sell occult books, but there were also shelves of other strange and curious objects, which might appeal to the amateur alchemist or necromancer; glass jars of preserved reptiles, grinning skulls, and black candles were amongst some of the more identifiable items.

Kaspian had visited Foxglove’s shop since being a small boy and he was no longer quite so scared, or impressed, by its spooky appearance or its owner. Before Professor Heartlock’s accident, they’d always visited together. It was one of the rare occasions the old man shared any physical affection with his charge. Kaspian would search out Heartlock’s bear-like paw and grip it tightly, afraid the strange Mr. Foxglove might kidnap him and cook him for supper.

Mr. Foxglove had always been ancient, and so paradoxically he no longer aged. He wore a glass eye, but as he’d shrunk with age, it had become too big for the socket and now bulged, giving the impression the eye belonged more to an insect than a man. Even now, Kaspian constantly had to remind himself not to be rude and stare at it because he found it totally captivating. Mr. Foxglove had long lost the ability to stride and now shuffled along the stone floor in a pair of velvet slippers. In all of his years of visiting, Kaspian had never seen the man wear outdoor shoes.

The occult section of the shop had no windows. Before the client entered, Mr. Foxglove would shuffle into the darkness and light the dusty oil-lamps, which filled the room with paraffin smoke, and cast dancing shadows over the books. As a child, Mr. Foxglove had taken delight in teasing Kaspian about his fears surrounding the shop, telling him the shadows belonged to the book goblins. Both men would laugh, and although he knew he was being mocked, Kaspian’s imagination refused to give up the idea – even now he found himself looking for the goblins out of the corner of his eye.  

Today, Mr. Foxglove had already bundled and tied the books in readiness and they were sitting on the counter waiting for collection. Kaspian was grateful for this; not only did it save him time but it also meant he did not have to visit the back room. The books were heavy and twice he had used them as an excuse to stop and rest; once in a coffee shop and once to spy on the strange woman who now haunted the edges of his thoughts.

 “Ah, well – patience is a virtue,” said Heartlock, snapping Kaspian out of his drifting daydream. The professor’s face flickered with disappointment and he started to cough in reaction to the early winter air Kaspian had brought in with him. Heartlock’s aging lungs squeezed and wheezed; it was a sound now as familiar as the sound of his voice.

The old man recovered the pile of books from the side table and placed them into his lap before deftly turning his wicker wheelchair one hundred and eighty degrees and wheeling back towards his study.

Kaspian let out a deep sigh. The sight of his patron becoming so immobile and decrepit added to the increasing sense of heaviness Kaspian believed was attached to the adult world. Even the house, his home since childhood, faded and peeled on a daily basis. It was as if the whole place was a projection of its master’s state. The dust layer deepened, the gloom spread, and Kaspian felt increasingly like he was suffocating.

When Heartlock had been a fit man, the house had been full of fascinating visitors; the sound of hearty, booming laughter and the tinkling of whisky glasses filled the study, which was a hub of academic and scientific progress. It was amazing how quickly a life could decay. 

 

Dare You Visit The Haunted Village of Heargton?

The sleepy, rural village of Heargton in the U.K has always been a magical place. Ever since the first bronze age settlers built their home and buried their dead in the ancient burial mound that lies West of the village.

Now the village, with just over 1,500 habitants continues to be a place of significant paranormal interest due to its positioning at the intersection of powerful ley lines. At the very intersection of the lines is the village well, which local legend has it is a portal to the underworld.

THE HEARGTON WITCHES and THE OCCULT
The Heargton well is also significant due to it's nefarious and continuous connections with witchcraft. In the 13th century the rafters of the well served as a makeshift gallows from which three young and beautiful sisters were hanged, accused of witchcraft, sorcery and the murder of several young women from the village.

Their cottage, up on the top of Heathmoor Hill, North to the village, still stands although it is now in ruins. The cottage has become the focus of many recent paranormal investigations, including the televised investigation conducted by Ghost Raiders, aired on HNC in 2013.

It is believed that there are several covens still active in the surrounding area. There is much evidence of Satanic and Pagan activity in the form of graffiti, livestock injuries and totems that can be seen hanging in several places around the village. The village continues to celebrate many ancient pagan rites, including that of the Lighting of The Fires, which takes place in the New Year, and which has become a unique tourist attraction, due to its pretty procession and festivities.

THE GREEN MAN INN
Over the course of the weekend investigation, Ghost Raiders also explored The Green Man Public House, a 13th century coach inn, still in use today and which has changed little in its 650 years. The Green Man prides itself on being 'one of the most haunted pubs in England'. Most dominant of its spirits being that of a large Tudor innkeeper who has not taken kindly to the subsequent owners, a Grey Lady who is believed to be a jilted lover abandoned mid-plan, and a friendly basset hound who still warms himself by the fire. As an interesting aside, The Green Man is also the original home of 'The Green Man Music Festival' which has become a cult festival drawing lovers of rock music from all over the country.

COLD STONE HOUSE and THE CHASE FAMILY
Heargton is home to two important historical houses. Cold Stone House, South of The Village is home to the Chase family; a branch of which is now located in New York, U.S.A in the form of the Pharmaceutical giants, Chase Enterprises. This branch of the family orginonated from one of the brothers who departed for the U.S.A in the earliest days, finding himself in Salem, Massachuttes and partaking in the infamous Salem Witch Trials. Cold Stone House is still home to Lady Penelope Asquithe; the remaining Chase of her bloodline. The family are notoriously secretive and have always been so. Little is known of them except that their family has been blighted by tragedy over the years; including deaths of all the male line in World War I, a tragic murder, suicide in the late nineteen forties of a woman and baby, and several other untimely ends.

RAVENHEART HALL and THE RAVENHEART FAMILY
To the North of the village is the imposing Gothic monstrosity of a country house called Ravenheart Hall, a suitable name. Built in red London brick during the Tudor period, it nestles, almost hidden between the ancient burial ground and Raven Woods. An incredibly rich and powerful family, with regal connections, the Ravenheart family were philanthropic with their wealth, building both the Heargton library and The Rookeries Hospital. However, despite these acts of generosity over the years, The Ravenhearts have not always been thought of kindly; there are several more nefarious figures in the Ravenheart lineage, including slave traders, tyrants, suicides and links to the occult. Descendants of The Ravenheart family continue to live there today.

RAVEN WOODS
Within the grounds of Ravenheart Hall are Raven Woods; a spooky forest predominantly formed of tall and shadowy Scott's Pines. The woods have long been associated with the paranormal. Believed to be ancient druid lands, it is believed that the woods are protected by an Elemental drawn forth from the Earth by early Druid Priests. The Raven Woods is now home to the abandoned and derelict Rookeries Hospital, originally built as a maternity hospital, it was refurbished after a terrible fire in which many women and babies died. When it re-opened, it was used as an 'asylum for the criminally insane and morally dissolute.' Many villagers claim to still heart the ghostly voices of the insane when the wind travels in a certain direction.


Raven Woods is also believed to be haunted by the spirits of three virgins, who are connected to the three standing stones which can be seen as you drive along the West Road, but be careful if you do drive that road, especially on a misty night, as you may come across the Headless Hunt, comprised of the hounds of Hell.

BOB TUSSOCK The Highway Man.
If you travel out of the village on the North Road, be sure that you're not driving a red car. Over the course of thirty years there have been over twenty fatal crashes and numerous accidents, all of which have involved red cars. Needless to say that there are very few owners of red cars in the village now. The cause of this improbable 'accident redspot' as locals call it is Bob Tussock, a Highway Man who now haunts the North Road after he was hanged from a post on the spot as brutal warning to other would be Highway Men. It is thought that he still seeks vengeance from the village for both his death and his humiliation.

As well as these paranormal hotspots there are stories of several other entities that have taken residence in the village. Many have seen a ghostly figure of a woman in Victorian black who frequents the churchyard of St.Ursula's Church (West of the Village). There is also local legend that there is a Woman of The Lake who lives in the lake within the grounds of Cold Stone House, and that the Cold Stone Woodlands are home to spirit children who many dog walkers have reported hearing laugh and play.

TRICK

Book One of The Meadowsweet
Chronicles is on offer for just $0.99

I hope you have enjoyed learning a little more about the village of Heargton and its paranormal guests. This is where I have to admit dastardly Halloween Trickery and confess that Heargton is a village of my own creation.

If you fancy spending more time in the paranormal world of Heargton then 'Witchcraft', Book One of the epic occult and paranormal saga, 'The Meadowsweet Chronicles' is currently on Kindle sale for just 0.99 offer. You can also buy a copy in paperback either from Amazon or direct from me. Head to the website www.katiemjohn.com for details.

VISIT MY AUTHOR PAGE at AMAZON

NOW TIME FOR YOUR TREAT
The first twenty people who comments in the comment box on this post will be sent a signed Meadowsweet postcard and receive a beautiful handmade (by my own fair hands), Tibetan silver charm book mark, like one of these pictured. Leave a comment here and then head over to www.katiemjohn.com to send me your postal address. There's quick link on the HOME page.



Book Two of The Meadowsweet
Chronicles is now out!

OCTOBER FRIGHTS BLOG HOP.
I hope you have enjoyed this 4th post in the #OctoberFrights Blog Hop. You can read more awesome posts by fellow horror and paranormal authors by either searching the hashtag on Twitter #Octoberfrights or by browsing through linked the blog roll below.

STAY IN TOUCH
If you have enjoyed your time on this blog, please press the join button in the right hand column.

HAVE A VERY HAPPY HALLOWEEN !

Tales From The Rookeries II: The Night of The Storm.

Hello, and welcome back to the series, Tales From The Rookeries. Today's dark little tale from The Rookeries; 'Hospital for the Insane and Morally Dissolute,' is called 'The Night of The Storm.' I guess you could call it a very twisted little love story.

To find out more about this blog series of 'Tales From the Rookeries' and the original series, 'The Meadowsweet Chronicles' you can read the introductory post HERE. To read more stories in the series, there is a link menu in the sidebar.

Please note that these are flash fiction pieces, designed to be playful in style and genre. They have not undergone professional edit so feel free to add constructive criticism in the comments - always learning, always growing!
 

The Night of The Storm (1854)

 

It’s been raining all day and all night. The lower floor, which sits mostly underground, has bars at the high level openings that serve as windows. Once there was glass, but it was not long before the ingenuity that comes with solitary confinement caused that to become rather a fatal problem; solved easily by not replacing the windows when they became broken. Now, the barred openings lead out onto the woodland, allowing the rain to channel down the mulchy slopes and into the building, creating muddy puddles on the brick tiled floor of the cells. The lunatics appear to accept this fate, like most others; it is just another layer of misery upon the many folds of misery they already wear.

On return from my rounds, I ask the matron if there is anything that can be done. She is a woman of God and believes that such natural discomforts are fitting for creatures who have abandoned Him. When I ask if her God would abandoned his own children, she reprimands my insolence and dismisses me to my duties with the veiled threat of permanent dismissal and a dented reputation. In my situation, as a young woman with no family and no home, it may as well be a threat on my life.

Hoping for more compassion and action, I interrupt the good Doctor Carson to inform him about the situation; he offers me a face that suggests a level of concern but no actions that might solve the situation.

    “The problem is, my dear,” he replies, “we would have to move them, and there is nowhere to move them to.”
     He gives me a kindly smile and then returns his attention to his notes. After an incredibly long minute of silence as I wait for some kind of eureka moment, I take my leave, closing the door quietly behind me.

The stormy weather does something to the lunatics; it’s as if they are mirrors to the wildness of nature; its unstable and often cruel moods are reflected in their actions as if they are turning nature’s energy into some beautiful but confused choreography. I cannot imagine the primal horror they feel when the crack of thunder and lightning splits heaven open like a wound bleeding the wrath of some angry God.

I have promised Henry that I would return within the hour, when I have found a solution to his increasingly wretched position. Unlike most of the patients housed on the subterranean floor, he is lucid, even with the weather – almost too lucid, so that you might think for a moment that it is you who is mad and that it is he who is sane. He has this way with him – a cold calmness, even on the hottest of Summer days; it’s a trick of his madness; the same madness that allowed him to savagely murder seventeen people in one weekend of night-time park prowls and then return to his work as an eminent surgeon on the Monday.

 It was not the first killing spree he had committed; although he has told me he has very little recall of the actual events of the three previous times he had mutated from calm and efficient surgeon to savage and insatiable predator.

Nevertheless, of all the patients I have responsibility for, I like Henry the most. He is always polite, and he has a gently burning fire behind his eyes that suggests amusement; in a similar way that a god might look down on earth and find his creations somewhat ludicrous.

 As I walk my rounds with my leather nurses’ boots treading echoes in the halls, the cries of the sad and desperate join in melancholy chorus with the wind. I wonder if, like them, I will ever leave this place, or whether we are all doomed to spend our lives within its grey, unkindly walls.

With the lower floor flooding, the rats are spilling up the stairs, stalking their quiet shadows against the tiled skirting. There will soon be more cries of horror as they seek sanctuary within the cells and add more lace to the patients’ fears. The drafts have blown out many of the candles that usually offer some small, reassuring light, and now as I turn on my journey towards the care-taker’s office, I am entering a dark and shadowy world, lit only by the candle that I carry.   

A scream, far away and yet close, barrels through the corridors, causing the hairs on my neck to prickle and rise. I am used to cries of sadness, of woe, and of pain, but there is something about this scream that is different to the rest; in it is a perfect clarity of understanding; like waking one morning to see the face of Satan in place of your own. I stop in my tracks, waiting for it to end. It is some moments before it finally quiets, and then the silence is almost worse than the sound of the scream. I pick up my skirts and turn towards that awesome absence of noise; my soles tap quickly on the hard floor and my candle-light flickers with the threat of extinguishing at any moment. For a while, my thoughts of Henry are gone.

When I bump into Doctor Carson, also plucked from his own purpose by the sound of such a blood-curdling scream, I almost laugh with relief.

    “You heard it too, Elizabeth?”
I nod my head and bite down on my lip. I am hoping he is going to dismiss me to my duties and spare me the investigation that he is clearly about to undertake.
   “Come then, we had better see what awaits us,” he says, unable to hide the anxiety in his voice.

I follow in his steps. I am grateful that in this part of the building, there is no need for the candlelight as it is serviced by the gas lamps on the walls. I blow out my candle and when sure that the wick is cold enough, I stick it into one of the depths of my large apron pockets. On this dark night, I want to carry the light with me.

Now that there is nothing but the eerie yawning silence, it is hard to navigate our way, but Doctor Carson, through some kind of intuition, carries on, taking turn after turn until I can hardly believe that a scream could travel so far.

We arrive at the office of the Matron. My heartbeat trips over itself as I see the spray of blood across the glass of her office door.
    “Stay here,” Doctor Carson whispers.
I notice how a light sweat has broken out on his brow. He scans the corridor hoping to see reinforcements in the form of the male orderlies. He does not want to face the scene alone, even though he is no stranger to violence or blood.

He reaches out a tentative hand and pushes open the door. I read his face, searching for the narrative; it flickers with the crisis before resettling into some kind of blank calm.

   “Find help!” he says. I note how his voice has cracked between the words.
With morbid curiosity, I try to peer around his bulk to see inside, but he has positioned himself to ‘protect’ me.
From inside the room, I hear the death groans of the matron. He mistakes my hesitation for fear.
    “Quickly child, there may be a chance we can save her,” he says as he rushes to her side. Before the door swings shut, I see him pressing his hand to a wound that is pumping out blood like some kind of macabre fountain. She needs a surgeon.

I pick my skirts up with both my hands. Adrenalin and inspiration fuel my flight through the endless corridors and down the stairs past the rats and into the darkness. I have no time to stop and light a candle. It is not the light I need. As I reach the bottom of the stone steps, I barely notice that the hems of my skirts are damp with flood waters. I have a clear purpose. I feel in my pocket for my hoop of keys, searching out the key that I should not have but which I could not resist stealing. Maybe in my heart I had always known that one day I would free him.

I am calling out his name, as if to raise him from the dead.

    “Henry! Henry!”
My feet slosh through the water and I try not to think about the human waste and the disease that is churned up in it. By the time I arrive at Henry’s cell, the last one of the row, he is waiting for me. A look of saintly calm upon his face.
   “Elizabeth?” he asks.
He should not know my name and giving it to him was perhaps the very first turn of the key that would inevitably unlock him.
   “I need your help,” I plead.
He looks at me with eyes that tell me he has been waiting for this moment. They barely flicker with surprise. Every thought I have tells me that this is a wrong choice and yet every feeling I have confirms it is right.

I place the key in the lock and turn it, springing the locking mechanism. It is surprisingly easy, as if God is condoning my actions. A boom of thunder rattles the walls. Even in the short few minutes I have been back down here, the waters have risen, and with them, the cries of the patients. As much as I feel driven to save them, I know that leaving them here to drown is equally a kindly act.

For a moment, my hand rests on the handle of his cell as if I might have a change of heart. Henry waits. I open the door.

    “We need a surgeon,” I hurriedly explain, “and it will be at least half an hour before Mr. James can get here. It’s the Matron… someone has attacked her.”
    He nods. “It’s been a while,” he says almost apologetically.

It’s been three years almost to the day. I remember the very moment he arrived.

I lead him away from the cell, past the other patients who call for rescue too. I do not fear having my back to him – although I should. He seems in no hurry and I have to urge him on.
   “Quickly, please. She’s already half-dead.”
As soon as we are free from wading the flood waters, I trip up the stone step, hidden by the swirling waters. His hand strikes out to steady me.

When we arrive, Doctor Carson flinches before proclaiming,

   “My God, Elizabeth, what have you done?”
I do not answer. Henry is already assessing the Matron’s wounds and shaking his head. He says,
   “This is not good: the wound is too deep. The weapon has caught one of the main veins; I can tell from the spray of blood on the glass. There’s nothing to be done. It’s a priest you need, not a surgeon.”

Doctor Carson has his eye fixed on Henry in the way that venison fixes on a hunter.
   “Thank you, Henry,” Doctor Carson says gently. “Perhaps, Elizabeth could escort you back to your room if there is nothing to be done.”
   “I can try to stitch it,” he says, “but I don’t hold much hope.” Then almost as an aside he whispers, 
   “She’s dead anyway.”
The blood is still pumping out from between Doctor Carson’s fingers and then, just like lightning illuminates the sky, I see that the Matron is more to Doctor Carson than a colleague. He loves her.

Doctor Carson nods, giving his permission for Henry to do whatever he can. I feel the sensation of others at my back, and turn to see two of the male orderlies crashing through the door. They are about to take hold of Henry, but Doctor Carson raises a hand and they stop. Silence fills the room as Henry works. Despite the years of confinement, the rough treatment and the pain, I watch as his hands work like the hands of an artist. I cannot imagine those same hands ripping apart bodies like they claimed.

Eventually, the blood stops to a mere trickle, but I am not sure whether this is because Henry has been successful, or because the Matron is simply empty. Then, Henry sits back on his haunches, holding her wrist in search of a pulse. I am holding my breath as we wait, and it is only when I see Henry’s shoulders rise and fall with laughter that I breathe out.

    “I can still do it,” he says. “I still am.”

With the crisis over, Doctor Carson instructs me to call for Mr. James. We all know that the Matron is far from saved. There is an awkwardness in the room. All is out of joint. This man, the lunatic, has saved her life – for the present. He is more than a creature, more than a murderer, more than a lunatic, and nobody knows how to treat him.

Finally, Doctor Carson issues the instruction for the orderlies to return the patient to his room. I begin to protest. We all know that it isn’t a room, but a cell – and tonight, it is no more than a tomb.

    “But, Doctor, surely we can…”
    “Elizabeth, please hurry with word to Mr. James.”

I am just about to leave when the room erupts. From somewhere there is a terrible yawping roar and a flash of white cottons and flesh. I try to make out the scene, but there are so many bodies. Blood splatters the walls, and floors, and faces. There seems one body too many, and as I stand somewhere between terror and fascination, I see that it is not Henry that is the painting the room red, but another patient, Joe, who has been hiding in the Matron’s office watching his crime play out like a play. There is something sharp and glinting in his hand, but I am desperate for him not to see me and so I hide behind the door frame. Dread causes my legs to turn to sculptured stone. The rich copper smell of freshly slaughtered meat.

 All at once, I am being pulled along the corridor.

    “They’re all dead, Elizabeth,” Henry says with his hand in mine. “We have to go!”
    “All?” I ask, knowing that within the last few minutes, the beast in Henry has appeared. His hands are stained with blood and his face is jewelled with blood.

As we run, I know that no matter how deeply I love him, I am holding hands with a beast that will both love and destroy me.  

Tales from The Rookeries Asylum I - New Nurse

Welcome to the first posting of  Tales from The Asylum, a blog #FlashFiction project of short stories, all less than 2000 words (a 5-10max read). The stories are inspired by location of The Rookeries Asylum, which features in The Meadowsweet Chronicles. I hope you enjoy this short little read. It's called 'New Nurse'. Don't forget to sign up to the blog for updates on the stories to follow. You can read about this blog project in the introductory post, and you can find in the right sidebar a live-link table to other stories in the series as they appear.

Tales from The Asylum I: New Nurse
(1951)

The bus dropped me off in the village of Heargton. The Asylum, I had been told, was just a short ten minute walk through the village on the East Road. The Matron had neglected to inform me that the way would be little more than a mud track through a creepy wood. I looked down at my once pristine white nurses’ shoes and sighed. Mud-spattered was not the first impression I had intended to make. I hoped she would put it down to youthful ignorance rather than carelessness.

My mother had cried when I’d left for my first day in my new job. She’d had noble and romantic notions of me being a modern day Florence Nightingale; falling for some heroic soldier who I helped heal in both body and soul, not spending my days tending to the violent and criminally insane.

I shivered with the quiet fear that was unravelling in my stomach. The wind wound its way through the trunks of the tall Scots Pines creating an eerie, mournful moan. As I walked, it became a chorus of other pitiful cries – those of human relics. I looked at my watch, knowing exactly what time it was. I had planned my journey meticulously. But there was something in the shadowy gloom that made me question momentarily if I hadn’t somehow been tricked. It read two p.m.

The Rookeries grew from some haunted looking dolls’ house into a Victorian redbrick monstrosity. Gothic revival in style, the whole thing was decorated like an over the top wedding cake, as if somehow they could hide the ugliness incarcerated within from the outside world. I wasn’t fooled. There was something sinister about the florid stone floristry – as if it might contain a hundred deadly vipers.

I rang the bell and waited. I didn’t have to wait for long. It was opened by a squat woman with a sour mouth. Her eyes coldly and slowly appraised me from head to toe. Her lips twisted at the sight of my shoes. There was something in her look that made me feel naked, as if I were little more than meat on a butcher’s counter.

   “You’re late,” she said by way of welcome.
I glanced down at my watch. It was three minutes past two.
   “I’m sorry,” I said doing my best to hide my irritation with a look of contrition.
   “Well, you’d better come in. Doctor Mappin is waiting for you,” she said, turning her back on me and leading me into the cave-like hallway.

I scanned the room, taking in the heavy oak furniture and black and white tiles. It looked like the hallway of a country house, rather than an asylum, although I was soon to learn that like everything else I had seen of the place so far, it was a front to the inner horror.

A scream came from somewhere deep inside the hospital and startled me. As if the nurse had eyes in the back of her head, she said,
  “You get used to the noises after a time.” She led me up the sweeping staircase and along a corridor of glass windowed offices. Some of them had a row of sorry little metal chairs outside, which I guessed were for waiting relatives. I was instructed to take one of them outside an office which had the title of MATRON painted in gold on its window. The nurse walked further down the corridor before knocking on what I presumed must be the office of Doctor Mappin. ‘Strange’ I thought, that I should not have been asked to sit on one of the chairs outside of his office.

*

“The girl has finally arrived.”

Doctor Mappin peered over his papers. His half-moon glasses glinted in the afternoon grey winter light.  
   “Good, good.” He nodded.
Nurse Mary waited for the doctor to enquire more, but his attention was clearly drawn to whatever reading material he was holding.
   “She seems quite perfect. I’m sure that she will meet his specific requirements,” Mary said, trying to engage the doctor.
He flicked her a look, and Mary thought she saw the slightest shudder run through his shoulders. Doctor Mappin was essentially a good man, although The Rookeries Asylum was a world within a world in which the usual laws of good and bad were somewhat skewed. He was certainly, of the four doctors that worked here, the best of them. Mary had heard the rumours amongst the patients and other nurses; she’d walked past the locked rooms. No signs instructed, ‘No Entry’ but the keys could never be found.
   “Quite,” he said dismissively, although Mary knew that it was not disinterest but an unwillingness to be too deeply involved in the dark matter.
   “So shall I call her in?”
   “No. Take her straight down to him.”
Mary’s forehead crumpled. “But won’t she find that… strange, doctor?”
  “I really think that is the least of her problems, don’t you?”
Mary nodded and padded silently out of the room.

She smiled at the girl, whose name escaped her. It didn’t matter. In some ways it was better for her not to know. The Matron would take care of contacting her parents; informing them that she hadn’t turned up for her appointment and that her job offer had been withdrawn. They might contact the police and trace her steps as far as the bus station but that would be it. The Rookeries was owned and protected very powerful people.

*

The nurse came out of the office and smiled at me. It was the first time she had smiled since we’d met. I preferred her scowl; there was something over sweet about her smile, as if her teeth were fashioned of sugar cubes. She apologised on behalf of the doctor, who was ‘very busy’ and had requested that she show me around. She informed me that I was to work primarily with one of their patients; the son of a very wealthy family, although he was not, as he would no doubt claim in his conversations, a prince.

  “No, no, no – imagine the scandal!” she exclaimed in such a way that I immediately suspected that the man may be a prince. “The poor man suffers from delusions of grandeur – he’s very convincing.”

I nodded sagely, hoping that my inexperience and excited curiosity was not too obvious. “Why is he here?”
She flinched, and I wondered what horrible malady the man must suffer to make even an experienced psychiatric nurse recoil.
   “He has…” she struggled with her words, clearly not wanting to tell me and yet feeling compelled to answer a question she’d been asked. “Perhaps it would be an interesting exercise to see what your own assessment is after you meet him.”
Excitement flared. “But he’s,” I cleared my throat, “he’s safe for me to work with, yes?”
   “Aubery is a perfect gentleman,” she reassured.

She pushed open the door and we stepped into the twisted soul of the building. It was a soul made of iron bars, soiled stiff calico and tears – some silent, some screaming. I couldn’t help but look in at the wretched creatures held in their cells. Regardless of their crimes, there was something inhumane and cruel about their plight. My presence caused a ripple of eerie catcalls and outpourings of desperation. As if sensing my horror, the nurse explained,
   “This ward is for the most criminally insane. They are here because their crimes are so awful that Satan himself would have reservations over allowing them in to Hell. Don’t let them move you to pity. If you knew their stories, you’d feel entirely different. Female nurses never work in here. Only the Matron and I are allowed access so that we might tend to Aubery.”

My instincts started a quiet warning. Questions whispered in my mind. Why was I ‘allowed’ here? ‘Why was Aubery so close to such monsters if he wasn’t a monster too?’ My nerves jangled and I felt small the small prickle of sweat on my palms.

At last, we reached the end of the corridor and the nurse rummaged her chatelaine of keys before inserting a large metal key into the lock of the barred door. One through, she locked it behind her, adding to my mounting paranoia. Here, the corridor was flanked either side with wooden doors that were still clearly cells but which offered more privacy than the ones in the previous section. She guided me down to the end and I wondered how often I would have to make this journey before it became part of normal. Here there was silence behind the doors, and I wondered if in fact they were inhabited at all. I wasn’t sure what was worse – to be locked away surrounded by the cries of the tormented mad, or to be cocooned in silence.

The nurse knocked on the door and I was surprised to see that on invite she simply turned the handle and entered: the patient apparently free to enter and leave his room as he pleased.

   “Mary,” he greeted with a voice like a velvet ribbon. “How nice of you to call.”
I smiled inwardly. At last I knew the nurse’s name, and she had been right about his gentlemanly sense of delusion. I stepped into the room behind her and saw how it was far more like an apartment than the cold brick cells I had seen on my journey so far. There were heavy velvet drapes at the barred window, which even at this time of the day, were drawn against the sombre afternoon light. The man, who was unnervingly handsome, was reclined on a threadbare chaise and dressed as if he had raided the clothes rail of the local amateur dramatics society.

Mary turned to me, beckoning me forward and I saw his eyes swivel towards me, giving the unnerving impression of a lizard. He smiled approvingly, and it seemed simple good manners to hold my hand out in greeting, even though it was the very last thing that nursing protocol demanded. I sensed Mary moving towards the door and looked to her for clarification as to what it was I was meant to be doing.

She was already half way out – her body slinking through the closing gap of the door.

   “Enjoy your meal, Aubery,” she said as the door clicked behind her.
I looked to the man and saw him smile. We had not brought a tray of food with us and as I scanned the room, I could see no other lunch set out. I backed towards the door, not taking my eyes off the man on the chaise. His impossibly pointed teeth bit down onto the cushion of his lips, and a flare of hunger flashed through his eyes.
   “Come, little lamb,” he crooned, swinging his legs off the chaise and patting the seat next to him. “Let me tell you a story before I dine.”

The realisation of my fate struck me so hard that I felt physically winded. I tried the door handle, but it simply rattled in my hand, stubbornly refusing to turn. I pummelled the door with my fists until they burned, crying out for Mary – but Mary was gone, and with her, all my hope.