Dark Avenging Angel

Don’t hurt Jane. You may live to regret it.

Bullied by her abusive father, Jane always felt different. Then the lonely child found a friend in a mysterious dark lady who offers her protection—a lady she calls her “angel”. But that protection carries a terrible price, one to be paid with the souls of those Jane chooses to suffer a hideous and eternal fate.

When Jane refuses to name another victim, the angel reveals her most terrifying side. Payment must be made in full—one way or the other.

Dark Avenging Angel

Catherine Cavendish

Dedication

To Colin, without whom…

…and, in loving memory—Penny, Jennie, Jo, Lucy and Mimi

Acknowledgments

As always, I am indebted to my friend and fellow horror writer, Julia Kavan, who read through an earlier version of this story and steered me away from the paths of sheer folly. Thank you, Julia!

Massive thanks also to my amazing editor, Don D’Auria, and to Kelly Martin, who designed this stunning cover. Thanks also to my fellow Samhain horror writers for their support and friendship and to everyone at Samhain Publishing for being so great to work with.

Chapter One

No child should plot their father’s murder, should they? No child should ever want to.

Childhood is supposed to be the happiest of times; school days, the happiest of your life. Home should be the safest place in the world.

Ha! I don’t think so.

Fine for those lucky kids who could guarantee they would go home to parents who loved each other; to fathers who would be proud of their little girls and tell them how much they loved them and how beautiful they were, even when acne raised angry, red and yellow spots, marring any fledgling good looks.

I, on the other hand, would go home, heart in mouth, scared of what would happen when my father came in from work. At the scrape of his key, my mother tensed. She thought I didn’t notice, but she’d got that wrong. I noticed everything. I heard everything. The shouting, beatings, swearing—until I could take it no more, ran to the shelter of my bedroom and prayed he wouldn’t come in. Prayed that when it eventually went quiet downstairs, my mother would still be alive.

My father. I couldn’t call him Dad.
Dad
implies someone warm, loving, caring. Someone who makes their child feel secure and safe. Not someone who scares them every minute they’re around. This was the 1960s, but his attitude would have been more in tune with the 19th century.

“Put your toys away now, Jane. Your father will be home soon.” The nightly refrain from my mother as six o’clock rolled by and all traces of a child’s presence must be removed. I was sure he would have had me removed if he could. If I laughed too loud, a disapproving look and an impatient rustle of the newspaper followed. If I raised my voice?

“Can’t you keep that daughter of yours quiet? I’m
trying
to read.”

My mother didn’t need to respond. I would already have got the message and retreated to the relative safety of my bedroom. There I would dream my dreams. Mostly of how to escape this nightmare.

I’d read my bumper books of fairy tales from exotic lands. Spain. India. Magical places where princesses locked in towers were freed by handsome, brave princes on pure white stallions. I’d imagine myself dressed in a flowing robe of white and gold, rescued by a tall, handsome stranger with deep-brown eyes and strong arms. He’d swing me up behind him on his horse and we’d ride away from the prison where my evil father, the king, had imprisoned me all my life.

One day, I saw a photograph of a man just like that in an old photograph album my mother kept tucked away in the bureau drawer.

“Who is that nice man, Mummy?”

But Mum seemed uncomfortable answering my question. She almost snatched the album from me, and snuck it back into the drawer.

She caught me gazing at that picture a few more times when I was a child. Each time, I asked her who it was. Each time, she took the album and put it away. But she never forbade me from fishing it out again.

Taunting me seemed to be my father’s chief hobby. It happened on an almost-daily basis. Nine out of ten for a mental-arithmetic test would earn me one of his favorites; “
You’re
no good, plain Jane Powell,” he’d say, his mouth twisted in an ugly sneer. “Look at you. Go on. Look at yourself in the mirror.”

He’d grab my shoulders and twist me around so I had to look at my reflection, even though I hated to see myself. Short, nondescript mousy hair, unremarkable blue-gray eyes, pale, scared face.

“Plain face, plain mind. You’re nothing.
Nothing.
You’ll never amount to anything. When your friends have all been to university and got themselves good careers, you’ll be selling toothpaste to them in the market!” He would throw me to one side. “Get out of my sight. I don’t want to look at you.”

I’d race out of the room, in case he changed his mind.

“You shouldn’t speak to her like that,” Mum would say.

“I’ll speak to her however I like.”

Subject closed.

Children without siblings get used to their own company. I suppose it makes us more self-reliant. I’ve never needed crowds of people around me, and living alone never caused me any real grief. Yes, I’ve known loneliness, but I would far rather be alone than in the sort of marriage my mother endured for thirty years.

Most of the time growing up, I wasn’t
completely
alone. When I wasn’t dreaming of heroic rescues, I played with my dolls. I had four of them. Each with their own personalities, or so I imagined. Audrey, the sophisticated one with her short, curly, shiny, brown hair and vivid-blue-painted eyes. I dressed her in silky remnants of my mother’s old petticoats. Molly and Sally were baby dolls. They usually sat quietly, observing the proceedings in their pretty pink dresses, little, white bonnets and hand-knitted bootees.

My out-and-out favorite was the one I saved my pocket-money pennies for, week after week, until the glorious day when Sindy became mine. Sindy with her bright, pouty smile and long blonde hair, cascading over her shoulders, as mine was never allowed to do. I dressed her in tight blue jeans and a stripy top, or a pretty cotton dress. On her feet, white stilettos or dark-blue sneakers. I didn’t have much pocket money, so Mum made little clothes for her. Frilly blouses, a blue-velvet skirt, even a fancy green spring coat, all handsewn or run up on her machine from scraps of cloth left over from her dressmaking.

I wrote little plays for my dolls. Stories that echoed my dreams. The other dolls would play the minor roles but the star of the show was always Sindy. My poor mother endured hours of
Princess Sindy and the Castle of Adventure
,
Lady Sindy and the Case of the Missing Locket
,
Sindy’s Spanish Adventure
…The list ran on and on. The dining room table provided the stage. I created scenery from old cereal boxes, decorated with pictures cut out of magazines or drawn by me. Sadly, my creativity didn’t stretch to any artistic talent. But, while I made Sindy the star, she lived out my ambitions. One day I would be a great actress or a famous playwright.

Over a couple of years, Sindy’s daytime wardrobe grew and I styled her hair every which way to suit her look for that day. She was my pride and joy. No other doll came close. But, lovely as she was, no one could match my cat.

Sukie. I can still remember the day I was handed a Clarks shoebox punctured full of holes so the little kitten inside could breathe. On the bus going home, I nursed the box proudly on my knee. Muffled squeaks issued from within and passengers kept turning round to see what was going on. All the while, I sported the biggest grin, as my six-year-old self declared I’d never be lonely or bored ever again.

In the kitchen, Mum took the box from me, laid it gently on the floor and removed the lid. A little, jet-black scrap of fur with huge, blue eyes blinked at the daylight, opened her pretty little mouth and squeaked. I scooped her up and cuddled her.

“Careful, Jane, you’ll frighten her.”

“I love her, Mummy. She’s beautiful.”

Mum smiled and tickled the little, furry chin. “Yes, she is, and I expect right now she’s rather hungry.”

Sukie and I grew ever closer. Her blue eyes gradually changed to a vivid green, shining like emeralds against her glossy, black fur. Until she grew too big, she used to curl up and sleep in one of my slippers.

My father tolerated her presence, until she grew enough to jump up on his car in the garage one night and left muddy pawprints along the bonnet.

He thumped the dining room table. The cutlery jangled. “You’d better stop that bloody cat. If I see any more of her handiwork, I’ll get rid of her. Do you understand?”

I ran from the dining room in floods of tears, found nine-month-old Sukie and scooped her up, ignoring her protesting meow. I held her close and whispered in her ear, “Please don’t jump on the car, Sukie. He says he’ll get rid of you and I can’t do without you. Please, Sukie.
Please.
” My tears drenched her fur. I’m sure she wasn’t too happy about that, but she let me. And she purred. Her pink tongue licked my fingers, its roughness and rhythmic strokes soothing me, until we cuddled up together on the settee and fell asleep.

Mum said he wouldn’t carry out his threat, even though this scene was repeated ad nauseam over the years. Trouble was, I always believed he would.

Bastard.

But there was yet another reason I wasn’t completely alone.

My dark angel first came to me one night. There had been yet another major row. The neighbors must have heard him yelling at my mother. They must have heard the shattering of porcelain as he threw God knows what at her. Hadn’t they wondered at the repeated slamming of doors? Mum must have tried to keep him away from her, but he forced them open and overpowered her.

Not even her screams brought them pounding on the door. “You’re breaking my arm! Get away from me. Get away. You’ll wake Jane.”

Sleep? Fat chance. I scrambled out of bed, crammed my hands over my ears and huddled on the floor, against the wall.

My father’s roars. Wild and indistinct. At such times, he became a madman. Possessed.

That night, I dressed and ran out of the house, slamming the front door behind me. Nine o’clock on a dark Friday night, just before Christmas 1964. I raced down the street, bawling my eyes out. I passed a couple who eyed me curiously. No one said anything. No one interfered or offered to help. A ten-year-old, distressed girl out on her own. Anything could have happened. I shudder now when I think of it.

I reached the bus stop. In my pocket I had enough for the fare into town, but nothing else. Someone touched my shoulder and I turned, expecting it to be my mother. She must have realized I’d gone and had come to find me.

A stranger stood there smiling at me. A tall, elegant woman dressed in a black cloak that covered her from head to toe. She was unlike anyone I had ever seen, with her blanched white face, dark, seemingly black, eyes and lips. Beautiful in an exotic way. She put her finger to her lips. I noticed her long, slender fingers with their elegantly manicured nails. Her melodic voice washed over me, dissolving my fears. At least for that moment.

Do not be afraid. I will be with you. No harm shall come to you.

I was too stunned to speak. She turned and glided away, her cloak trailing on the sidewalk.

Then my mother ran toward me, straight past the lady, who was by now more shadow than substance. “Jane! Oh thank God I’ve found you! What were you thinking of? Where were you going?”

“Did you see the lady?”

“What lady?”

“You must have seen her, Mummy.”

“I didn’t see anyone. You must have imagined it.”

“No, I didn’t. She spoke to me. She told me not to be afraid.”

“Well then, that was good advice and if I ever see her, I’ll thank her. Now come along, let’s get you home to bed. It’s late.”

I pulled away from her. “I don’t
want
to go home. I don’t want to be in the same house as him. Why can’t we go and live with Grandma? Why do we have to stay with
him
?”

I burst into tears and my mother hugged me. Maybe she was fighting back tears herself. I never got my answer, and we never went to live with Grandma. Mum just did what her generation of women did and “made the best of it”.

It would be some weeks until I saw the woman again but, by that time, I couldn’t get her out of my mind and had already christened her “my angel”. She was there to save me. She would watch over me when no one else could. After all, she’d promised me, so it must be true.

Stanmore Road Junior School had an excellent reputation. I was in the A stream reserved for academically gifted children. I couldn’t imagine how I’d managed to get there. After all, I was no good, was I? I was destined to sell toothpaste in the local market.

I regularly came top in spelling tests and anything to do with English. My reading was way ahead of most of my classmates. But arithmetic was a different matter. And my handwriting was appalling, mainly because I had so many ideas in my head I couldn’t wait to get them down. Quality was sacrificed for quantity.

Needless to say, it didn’t matter how many gold stars I achieved, my father would only focus on the less than perfect scores for arithmetic and handwriting. On Saturdays when my friends were playing in the street, I would be at the dining table, copying out paragraphs from a textbook, repeating them again and again if my letters dared to overlap their allotted tramlines in the specially designed Silvine exercise book. Then I’d have to tackle the sums my father had set for me.

Children can be so cruel. This enforced extra homework meant I had to decline invitations to go and play at friends’ houses on Saturdays. My shyness and lack of confidence resulted in merciless teasing at school. I withdrew into myself.

Breaks and lunchtimes would find me outside, alone, standing in a corner of an outbuilding which stood open to the elements at one side. The harsh, raw Lancashire wind whistled around me, biting through my layers of warm clothing. My corner provided scant cover, but I felt safe there. No one bothered me. No one wanted to, I suppose.

Despite my self-inflicted solitude, I did have an on-off best friend. Christine Sugden. Mum didn’t like her. She thought her too bossy. I was just grateful for her friendship, even if she did withdraw it if I dared to disagree with her. On our periodic fallings-out, I would retreat back to my corner and wait until she decided I had learned my lesson and could be her best friend again. During our estrangements, she delighted in humiliating me.

“Plain Jane, no one wants to be your friend,” she would say, as a clutch of my classmates joined in, poking fingers at me, calling me
plain
or
fat
. Now I look back, I wasn’t skinny like them, but fat? No. They added
ugly
and
freak
to their list of taunts. Of these,
freak
would become their favorite, but that was because of my angel and something that happened later.

Every year from my earliest at school, the dreaded parents’ evening would come around. I sweated about it for weeks beforehand. A babysitter would come and sit with me, while I tried to concentrate on
Mr. Ed
and chewed my fingernails. Then I’d hear the dreaded key in the lock and await my punishment.