The Well (46 page)

Looking down at the quarry pool, she thought she could almost understand Abby’s motives in leaving her daughter – the sheer terror at seeing your life’s love vanishing into the water could be enough to force an irrational decision.

A sparkle in the long, untidy grass caught her eye: a flash of light, reflecting off something bright. She took a few steps towards it; beside her, Trudy halted and growled. Jenny looked down at her. “Hey, Trude,” she said. “What’s up?”

Eyes full of fear, the dog looked at her owner through untidy black hair and growled again.

Jenny walked forwards and moved the grass with her foot. On the floor was a knife. Trudy barked – a warning bark, as she would if she sensed someone outside the house.

“It’s OK, girl,” soothed Jenny. She reached into her pocket, grateful that she had brought a couple of extra dog poop bags. She turned one inside out and covered her hand with it and squatted down to reach for the knife. It was abnormally cold to the touch – so cold that it almost burned. Jenny dropped it back to the ground and rubbed her fingers, surprised. She studied it where it lay; Trudy continued to growl and wouldn’t come any closer.

The blade was around five inches in length and seemed to be roughly made – not mass-produced or machined. The edges of the blade were sharp, but uneven. The hilt was dull metal, a shallow S shape. The handle was almost as long as the blade and was wooden, battered and old. There was nothing ornamental about it, but nor was it mere cutlery or kitchenware. It was a fighting knife, Jenny was sure – and an old one, too. She picked it up again, ignoring Trudy’s insistent growls.

This time, the knife felt less cold – though still somehow deeply unnatural. One edge of the blade was stained dark. Somehow, the knife itself had a presence – in the way that some people project an untrustworthy or violent demeanour, only worse. Much worse. The knife felt
evil
; no other word came close. Holding it, Jenny felt physically sick and more terrified than she could ever recall being. Yet, there was something about the knife that was both hypnotic and compelling. It was almost as if it wanted to be kept, ready to do dark deeds. Fascinated, she turned it over in her hands. She could almost feel its ancient history replaying in her mind and winced as she imagined it cutting flesh, time and time again. In her mind, she saw it carve into the black skin of someone she’d only recently met.

Without warning, Trudy ran at her and jumped against her stomach, pushing her to the ground. Jenny dropped the knife and the moment was gone. She lay on the ground, panting and then pulled herself to her knees. Trudy nuzzled against Jenny, whimpering. Jenny leaned forward on all fours and then vomited on the ground. She felt awful, shaking as if in traumatic shock.

After a few moments, she stood, unsteady on her feet, regarding the fallen knife with fear and disgust.

Jenny knew what she should do with the knife: collect it as potential evidence and check it in at the police station. But the mere thought of handling it again made her want to retch. She felt hot, as though she were infected and ill. There was an unnatural humming in her ears.
Screw it
, she thought.
There’s no way I’m taking that in
. Gingerly, she kicked the knife three times, each time moving it closer to the quarry face. With each kick, her foot sparked as if the knife were electric. Then, when she was right at the edge, she kicked it hard and watched it arch downwards, disappearing into the water with a small – almost disappointing – splash.

Jenny backed away from the edge of the quarry, Trudy milling around her feet. She couldn’t comprehend what had just happened, but there was no disbelief in her mind. Whatever she had touched was ancient, terrible and connected in some way that she couldn’t comprehend to Abby and Helen. Counter to all of her training and instincts as a policewoman and her scepticism of the supernatural, whatever the knife was, whoever it had belonged to, whatever it had done (or been used to do), Jenny really didn’t want to know. Ever.

She pulled her mobile phone from her pocket and called Stephen.

“Jen?”

Jenny paused. She didn’t want to tell Stephen about what had happened: not because it would sound insane, or because he might not believe her – but because she honestly wanted to forget all about it.

“Steve, I’ve changed my mind. I really don’t want to be alone. Can you meet me at mine, in half an hour? And bring wine. Or maybe something stronger.”

Jenny trudged down the hill with an unusually sombre Trudy at her side.

Later that night, she lay awake as Stephen dozed next to her, her mind unable to banish the horrific feeling of holding the knife. Yet, despite her fear and disgust, something deep inside her wished that she hadn’t thrown it away: that she could hold it again. It was a feeling from which she would never be completely free.

3

Sammy felt the hospital bed shift and creak under someone’s weight and assumed that her mother, Helen or both of them had come to see her. She opened her eyes and was immediately wide awake.

There was no light in the small room, but the light from the corridor outside provided enough illumination for her to see who it was.

The woman raised a finger to her lips. “Shhhh,” she said, softly.

She was older. Her hair was turning silvery grey and her face was lined. Sammy would have guessed that she was between fifty and sixty, though she wasn’t good at judging the age of grown-ups. Her increased age hadn’t diminished her beauty in the slightest. Sammy struggled to back away but could do no more than sit herself up in the bed, the stitches in her abdomen protesting against the sudden movement.

“Be calm,” said the woman. “I don’t come to hurt.”

Sammy looked around for the call button, but couldn’t see it. She started to shout but the woman leaned over and placed her hand firmly on her mouth. Her flesh was wrinkled and cold and smelt of – Sammy couldn’t place the smell. Something awful and dirty, like old meat. Sammy felt the whole room chill.

“Shhh,” repeated the woman. “I no hurt you tonight.”

Tears stung Sammy’s eyes. “What – what do you – want?” she stammered.

“Fear. Good. I like fear. Not so clever now?”

The woman didn’t wait for Sammy to answer.

“Your mother tell you story? Yes? Story of me?”

Sammy nodded.

“Is story only. I show you
truth
.”

Sammy shook her head. “You’re lying. You always lie. Mummy told me the truth.”

The woman shook her head, smiling. “She thinks is truth. Is not. Her mother’s mother lie. I show you. I show you so you know it is truth. You can see into me, I know.”

The woman placed her hand on Sammy’s forehead, closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

“Be brave,” said the woman.

It was dark. There was a cottage, in a wood. Sammy recognised it, though she had only previously seen it in ruins. Now, it was intact. There was a light inside. Sammy knew instinctively that she was seeing the past: a long time into the past.
The cottage in the old estate
, she thought. She looked around. There was the well, its wall intact. Constructed above the well was a rough wooden frame, from which hung a rope and bucket
– all long gone now, Sammy realised.

The sounds around her swirled as though she had a seashell to her ears and her vision was slightly blurry. She felt so, so scared, standing alone in the woods, in her nightie, her feet bare on the cold dry earth.

A woman approached, dragging a child alongside. The woman was dressed in old-fashioned, ragged clothes. The child was a girl of perhaps six or seven; she was battered and bleeding. She sobbed as she was manhandled to the door.

Sammy moved a little closer. The woman seemed somehow familiar. It was as though she were looking at someone she knew well. Sammy looked into the woman and felt this to be true. She knew that somehow she was related to the woman. It was as if she was her grandmother (although Sammy had never known her), but older still. Not even a great-great-great-grandmother
– much further back in time than that. She looked vaguely like her mother, thought Sammy, about the same age, in her thirties, though less pretty; more worn. Sammy realised who she was: the apothecary’s wife (although when Abby had said the word apothecary, Sammy hadn’t been able to pronounce it).
That’s right
, said a voice in her head.
She your family; from long back
.

The woman banged on the door and another woman answered
– Sammy recognised her at once.
It’s her
, she thought.
The witch-woman.
She was young, beautiful and pregnant
– not yet a demon of nightmares, she was just a woman. A woman with a name. Sammy could sense it; she knew what the woman was called: Emiliana.
Is me
, confirmed the voice inside her.
It’s Emiliana
, thought Sammy,
not Awful Anna or Evil Anna
. The two women spoke, though Sammy could only hear muffled underwater noises. Emiliana looked around, suspicious, and pulled the child into the house. She passed something to the apothecary’s wife
– Sammy couldn’t see what
– and she left in the same direction from which she had come.

Time passed. Sammy wasn’t sure how long. It could have been minutes, hours or days. She looked around.

Then, the same scene repeated itself
– no, it wasn’t quite the same. This time the child was a boy; younger too. He was four at the most.
Oh God
, Sammy thought. She tried to shout but although her mouth moved, no sound came out. She felt sick. The boy was taken inside the house and again the woman left.

Part of Sammy wanted to walk to the cottage and peek in through the gaps in the shuttered windows to see what was happening. A bigger part of her was too scared to move and she kept her feet rooted to the spot.

Then, a group of both men and women arrived
– creeping up to the house. They didn’t knock: the men beat down the door; several of them disappeared inside.
No
, Sammy tried to shout.
I don’t want to see this
.

A voice in her head said:
sshhhh
.

The men dragged the young woman
– Emiliana
– outside. She was desperately clutching a tiny baby. She pointed to the apothecary’s wife, who shook her head, shouting savage accusations and pointing back towards Emiliana.

Sammy could see flames coming from within the house. Emiliana was screaming, trying to get back to the house. From inside the house, Sammy could just make out someone else, screaming, terrified.

The apothecary’s wife wrenched the baby away from Emiliana and held it high. Emiliana tried to get the baby back but one of the men punched her hard in the face and then kicked her to the ground.

No, no
, thought Sammy,
please, no, oh Mummy, please
–

Then Sammy felt the baby in her own hands; she had become
– or was in the mind of
– the apothecary’s wife, feeling and seeing events from her perspective. She felt the woman’s awful glee as she carried the baby to the well and threw it down inside, hard. The crowd around her cheered. Sammy felt both triumphant and sick at what she had just done.

Sammy was herself again, watching from the sidelines in her nightie. The men were tearing the clothes from Emiliana’s body. She was begging them to stop. She tried hard to look away, but she felt a cold hand firmly holding her head in place.

“Please no,” Sammy begged, “make it stop, I don’t want to see it.”

The hand held her head tight.
This is me
, said the voice,
see me suffer
. The men
– they were just like
him
. Like the
bad man
. All of them. She counted them: there were eleven men and five women. The women were cheering the men on. The apothecary’s wife looked on in satisfaction, arms folded. Emiliana was now naked, pinned to the ground. The first man unfastened his trousers and approached Emiliana.

Please, I’ve seen enough
– please
–

Sammy felt herself falling, nauseous, towards the ground.

The hospital room came back into focus. Sammy knew she was going to be sick. She leaned over the side of the bed and vomited on the floor. When she sat up, she wasn’t surprised to find that she’d also wet the bed.

Emiliana was still there, but the hard look in her eyes was gone; they were filled with sadness. “Is truth,” she said, pointing to her heart. “You see truth, here.”

Sammy nodded. “I don’t understand,” she began.

Emiliana pointed to Sammy, her finger touching her chest. “You is witch. Not just me.”

Sammy shook her head. “No –”

“Is true,” snapped Emiliana. Then, more softly, she said, “My first baby I lose. Your family is witch family. You help. Bring us children, to kill, to take the life from. You show us what to do, to – teach us. We also family witch but not so strong as you, not so bad as you. You make us witch like you. Do dark things. To feed me. To give me baby that lives. My boy.”

“You want me to feel sorry for you?” said Sammy, petulant. “You’re still a killer. You didn’t
have
to do it. I don’t feel sorry for you. I don’t.”

There was a long pause. Sammy couldn’t stop shaking.

“You family lie,” said Emiliana. “You trick. Tell lies. Woman –” She was frustrated and seemed to be struggling for words. “I show you one more thing. And then you know. Then you – certain.”

She again placed her hand on Sammy’s head. She felt herself falling.

Sammy was inside the cottage. There was warmth from a fire. Across the room, an old, kindly woman looked at Sammy, proud. Sammy was grown: a young woman. She realised that she was now Emiliana; she was seeing this through Emiliana’s eyes.
No
, she thought,
not just seeing it, but feeling it just as if I am her
. It was a powerful rush of sensations, far more than when she had been inside the mind of the apothecary’s wife. She felt so much love. In her arms Sammy held a baby, not long since born. It was feeding from Sammy’s breast; tugging at her nipple. Sammy looked down, fascinated by both the sight and the sensation. It was pleasure beyond anything she could have imagined. Sammy could feel her eyes fill up, but not from fear, from love. Her boy. He was
– he was beautiful. His name, Sammy knew, was Emil. Named after the woman, Emiliana
,
but with the boy name. Sammy watched the child, captivated. He opened his eyes and Sammy couldn’t help but love him.