The Grieving Stones (9 page)

Alice thought about the punch dummy, and then she tried not to think about the figure she thought she’d seen in the kitchen earlier that evening. “No… there was no one. Just us.” She ran her fingers across Moira’s brow. “You have a high temperature,” she said.

Moira reached up and grabbed her hand, hard, as if she might not let go. “Be careful,” she said, shaking. “Just… be… careful…” Then she closed her eyes and let go of Alice’s hand.

Although she must have been in great pain, Moira didn’t cry out even once when the men carried her outside and to the vehicle. They carefully laid her down on the rear seats, making her as comfortable as they could. When it was done, she seemed to relax and let herself drift into an uneasy kind of half-sleep.

Alice climbed into the van with a blanket and laid it across Moira’s wide body, tucking it in down the sides. She kissed the woman’s sweaty brow, compelled for some reason to show some kind of affection, but it felt like she was saying goodbye forever. It was a strange sensation; she felt that Moira, the van, perhaps the whole world outside this place, were all taking a shuffling step backwards, leaving her behind in some shadowy zone where she felt she truly belonged.

She climbed out of the van and watched as Steve got into the driver’s seat.

“Drive safely,” said Clive.

“Don’t worry. I’ve only had a couple of glasses of wine. I’ll be fine.” Steve started the engine and switched on the headlights. A small animal – perhaps a rabbit – scurried away from the beam and vanished into the undergrowth.

“Are you sure you know where you’re going?”

“Yeah… I’m fine. I remember passing by a sign for that town with the hospital when we came in. Bastion, wasn’t it?

“Yes,” said Clive. “That’s the closest hospital to us: Bastion General. It’s small, more like a clinic than a proper hospital, but it has a Minor Injuries Unit.”

“I’ll just take the same route back. I should be there in less than half an hour.” Steve smiled, checked Moira in the rear-view mirror, and then slipped the van into gear. He seemed glad to be leaving. “See ya,” he said. The van pulled slowly away and headed off down the hill, into darkness, and towards the blacktop road that would lead them away from this place.

“And then there were three,” said Jake. “I’ve always wanted to say that.”

Clive turned and glared at him.

“Sorry,” said Jake. “Inappropriate, I know… I didn’t mean anything by it.” But he was grinning, as usual.

Alice turned away from the bickering men and stared with growing affection between the trees and across the dark landscape at Grief House. Even in the dark, the old stones looked cleaner than before, as if someone had scrubbed them down. The door didn’t look new exactly, but it no longer looked so old and worn. Even the glass in the lighted windows was different. These were all small touches; things nobody else would notice unless they were looking for them. But Alice noticed. She couldn’t help it. Because she knew the house was sensing the subtle changes in her too.

They trudged back in silence, listening to the night. Birds calling. Creatures rustling through the undergrowth. Nocturnal insects buzzing and clicking as they mated in the darkness.

When Alice went back inside the house she wanted to shut the door and lock the two men outside, but that would be cruel. They couldn’t spend the rest of the night outdoors. She would have to share her home with them both for just a little while longer, at least until the house managed to get rid of them too.

The sudden realisation of what might really have happened to Moira thrilled her. Had the house really acted to remove her from the group?

“Does anyone want a coffee? I don’t think I can sleep after that.” Clive headed towards the kitchen, once again rubbing his chin with his long fingers.

“Yes, please.” Alice followed him to the doorway and watched as he filled the kettle from the tap.

“Not me,” said Jake from behind her. “I’m going back to bed. I’m knackered.”

She listened to his footsteps as he went into the other room, then the hollow clunking sound as he shut the door.

“He’s a little uncouth,” said Alice.

Clive turned around. “I may have made a mistake bringing him here. Whatever he says, it’s always the wrong thing.”

“True… but I don’t think he’s a bad person.”

“No, just a stupid one.”

They both smiled. The door in the other room clicked shut again. Alice hadn’t even realised it had been re-opened.

“Do you think he heard us?”

“Do you even care?” Clive sighed. “The idiot was clearly listening in on us. Nosey bastard.” He closed his eyes for a second, and when he opened them again he seemed less tense. “I’ll talk to him in the morning, clear the air. I’m a little stressed.”

“You don’t say.”

He laughed, and it was a good and natural sound, if a little strained.

Alice felt the house shifting around her. It was not a great movement, but she was aware of the motion of the bricks settling and the timbers flexing as the roof adjusted its weight like a sleeping giant and the walls bowed incrementally to accommodate this slight motion.

The house was relaxing. The house felt comfortable with her inside it. There was nothing strange or even supernatural about this: it was merely a fact. Houses were alive, they had dreams and memories. They felt bad when they were neglected and happy when someone entered them who fit in, somebody who felt truly at home within their walls.

This old house, along with whatever forces it held tight within its embrace, was more than happy to have Alice come to stay. Indeed, she felt compelled by Grief House to change her status from guest to resident.

The electric kettle clicked loudly, prompting Clive to make the coffee. He carried the cups through into the main room and they both sat down on the sofa, taking an initial sip in silence.

“It’s good,” she said.

“Just cheap instant stuff, but right now it tastes like nectar.” He raised his cup in a salute and took another mouthful.

“There’s something I should probably tell you. About earlier.” She examined his face but he gave nothing away, just looked at her with an open expression. “When Moira was walking in her sleep… it was weird, but I didn’t feel alone.” She regretted telling him as soon as the words left her lips.

“What do you mean?”

“I… I’m not sure.” She paused to sip her coffee. “That room, up there in the roof. It isn’t empty. There’s some kind of energy, I guess you’d call it – a weird energy, up there.” She glanced upwards, emphasising the point.

He put down his cup on the floor and leaned forward in the sofa, then turned to face her directly. “Do you mean… ghosts? Is that what you mean? Do you think this house is haunted?”

She watched him; his mouth, his eyes. He wasn’t mocking her, she could tell. “No, not exactly. Well… I’m not sure what I mean. There’s something in the house with us, but I have no idea what it is. I don’t believe in ghosts…” It was a weak way to end the sentence, but it was also true. Alice had never believed in anything that she couldn’t see, touch, smell, or taste. She hadn’t been prone to flights of fancy before Tony’s death; she had always been grounded in the real world. But lately she’d been sensing other things, creases and wrinkles in the skin of her previously ordered life.

“You’re tired. We both are. Maybe we should talk about this in the morning, when we’re thinking straight. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not dismissing what you’ve said. I just think we need to get some rest before discussing something this… this nebulous.”

She nodded. She opened her mouth and almost said more, but then thought better of it. Now wasn’t the time to tell the rest of her secrets. He’d just told her as much. She should listen to him and keep her mouth shut.

“Okay,” she said. “As usual, you speak a lot of sense.”

He twisted his torso, bent over, and picked up his cup. For a moment she’d thought he was leaning in for a kiss.

CHAPTER NINE

Back in bed, Alice thought about the conversation she’d just had with Clive. It was more about what she hadn’t said than what they had talked about. The gaps, the pauses, the things she’d left out. She hadn’t really been trying to tell him about the things she’d felt since coming here; she was building up to telling him something else.

The punch dummy had moved again. She was getting used to its roaming.

“I know you’re there,” she said. “I just wish I knew who you were.”

She got out of bed and walked over to the dummy. Its pink latex torso had been shaped to imitate muscle, a six-pack. Its blunt head was a blank slate; she could draw anything, any expression she liked, upon its smooth surface. It made her think of Tony, but it wasn’t her dead husband come back to haunt her. She knew that. The spirits here were more subtle, more ambiguous. They might not even be spirits at all.

So what are they?

She didn’t know. She didn’t know anything, not any more.

Surprisingly, the attic room had been tidied to the point that it now looked like a space someone lived in. Comfortable, neat, a little shabby around the edges of course, but nothing a little love and attention would not put right.

She wasn’t the one who was tidying the house. Alice was certain of it. She had not suffered a blackout since Tony’s funeral. Before that, the only other episodes she’d experienced were the ones caused by Tony’s fists.

No, it wasn’t her. It was somebody else.

She ran her hand over the dummy’s taut stomach, remembering how firm Tony’s body had been. He’d developed an obsession with working out; lifting weights, hitting the heavy bag in the gym, running miles at night with a weighted rucksack on his back because he had trouble sleeping. He had been such a fit man, a fine specimen, but inside he had been rotten. He’d used his hands when his mind was unable to cope. That was the simple fact of it, and nothing could change what had happened between them.

“Bastard,” she said.

She turned away from the dummy and walked across to a small wooden school desk that had been hidden by clutter but was now exposed. There were a few papers on top of the desk; sketches of the house from the outside, photocopied photographs of the landscape around the house. She opened the desk drawer and found a bunch of pamphlets with blue covers – multiple copies of a booklet on local history. Once hidden, the house was now uncovering things for her to see.

The pamphlet was slim, with only a few pages. Its cover boasted a faded, poorly reproduced monochrome photograph of the Grieving Stones. She read the title and author:

The Strange Story of the Staple Sisters

and the Grieving Stones

By Clive Munroe

She picked the top pamphlet and skimmed the pages. Badly typeset script, a basic font, and no interior illustrations. Ignoring Clive’s name on the cover for now, she flipped over the pamphlet in her hands and tried to see the publisher’s mark. There was none. Evidentially, it was self-published. He’d written this himself and then had copies printed. For what reason, she couldn’t even guess.

Alice carried the pamphlet over to the bed, sat down, and began to read.

The following account is based on information discovered by myself from several sources. I consulted parish records, old publications, and letters held in a private archive to pull together what I believe is a fascinating story of deceit, betrayal, and witchcraft in the area surrounding Bastion, an isolated village in England’s Lake District.

*

The word
menhir
is derived from the Middle Breton language: maen, “stone” and hir, “long”. These standing stones can be found across Europe, Africa and Asia either singularly or as part of a group of standing stones. There are something like 50,000 menhirs in Ireland, Great Britain and Brittany. They were constructed during many different periods of pre-history, and are often difficult to date, erected as part of a megalithic culture from Europe and beyond.

On the barren moorland above Bastion village, there is a site of only minor historical interest to professional historians but that has long fascinated the people of the area.

The standing stones above Bastion are known locally as The Grieving Stones. There are five of them, arranged in a line facing north, and each has a different sign or symbol carved upon its northward surface. The origin of these stones, and their markings, is unclear, but it is suspected that they formed part of an ancient ceremonial site. It is said by some that druids once sacrificed children beside these stones, and the grief of the murdered children’s wailing mothers fuelled whatever power was buried there.

In the 1600s, during the English Civil War, two sisters lived in a house close to the stones. They were named Mag and Meg Staple, and they made a living creating medicines from locally foraged plants and herbs. They were known as witches, but because they helped the local farmers with their ailments, they were pretty much left alone to live in peace.